Aftermath
by occhi bella
Summary: COMPLETE! Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. WARNING: Contains mature themes, non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Rating up.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Apology (5-02, #2)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** R  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**Chapter 1**_

Ichabod's hand still held Katrina's as he watched the Hessian ride toward the gnarled, twisted tree in a torrent of blasting air, thundering hooves and swirling leaves. The Tree of the Dead opened its gaping roots to admit the horseman and his mistress. It swallowed him up as he galloped through and the roots closed again, covering all signs that he'd been there.

Only Lady Van Tassel's hand remained visible, seeming to jut out from the trunk of the tree among the roots, fingers curled. Oddly, her index finger remained eerily pointing toward him, finally curling slowly, as if beckoning him. Then it was still.

Relief overwhelmed him and he felt his muscles slowly relax. The heat began to leave his body as the night's events flashed through his mind. Discovering that Lady Van Tassel was alive and was the one behind the murders. Finding Katrina and Young Masbath in the windmill, alive and well despite his near-fatal blundering. The chase from the windmill to the Tree of the Dead. Returning the horseman's skull to him and saving Katrina in the nick of time. And finally the way Lady Van Tassel's visible hand seemed to beckon to him.

Ichabod swayed on his feet for a moment then fainted dead away.

**oooOooo**

The following morning Ichabod emerged from deep, peaceful sleep and slowly rolled onto his back, opening his eyes. Dawn was just beginning to break and a faint light peeked through the window of his room in the Van Tassel home. He stretched luxuriously and sighed, too deliciously relaxed and comfortable to rise just yet.

Ever since the night he'd woken out of the nightmare of his mother's death and into Katrina's arms, his sleep had been untroubled. The images now haunted him sometimes in his waking moments, stirring deep sadness and anger, but he found that he was able to cope with that. It was far better than before, when a black miasma blanketed that time of his life and he couldn't remember anything; neither how he'd lost his mother or why his father despised him.

As the first hint of bright orange streamed into the room he finally tossed off the blanket and sat up. He rose and padded over to the desk in the room. There was still much to be done here before they left for New York. The bodies of the recently deceased, including Katrina's beloved father, had to be properly buried. With every one of the town elders killed either by the Headless Horseman or in the skirmish in the church, new leaders among the villagers needed to step in and fill their places. Completion of a stack of paperwork was necessary in order to transfer all property and titles to Katrina, who was the sole heir not only to Baltus's land and wealth but to Peter Van Garrett's as well now. The village was broken and in mourning, and needed to be rebuilt and reenergized. As the remaining benefactor of the town, Katrina wanted to stay there for a short time to help.

And Ichabod had to rewrite notes about the case of the Sleepy Hollow murders in order to create a report to present to his supervisors. After erroneously concluding that Katrina was responsible for controlling the horseman and summoning him to kill, he'd thrown his ledger with all of the notes and sketches regarding the case, as well as drawings of Katrina, into the fire in despair. Everything he'd written about this case and about many cases from before had been consumed by flames.

_Thank God I didn't burn the book she gave me, even if I did believe it to be nonsense_, he mused.

Whether that book had any power or not, it was a gift from her and he cherished it. If he had only looked through it in the first place he would have realized that the symbols Katrina drew under his bed and in the church were meant for protection. She wasn't casting evil spells. And she'd given him that book for protection against harm, advising him to keep it close to his heart. _A Compendium of Spells, Charms and Devices of the Spirit World._

The book in question lay on the desk in the room, a bullet prominently lodged in the front cover. Lady Van Tassel had flawless aim; the bullet was aimed right at his heart and would have killed him had the book not been inside his overcoat, resting against his chest and shielding him.

Ichabod lifted the book and gazed at it pensively for several minutes. Then he stirred from his daze and shook off thoughts of his mistake and what might have happened had he returned too late, or not at all. He moved toward the table, where Young Masbath had left a pitcher of water, some towels and a bowl for him, washed up and dressed, then made his way downstairs to pour himself a glass of water to drink.

Soft, uneven sobs reached his ears and he stopped, glancing back in the direction of the sitting room, where the sounds were coming from. It was the room where he'd found Katrina reading that night, the night she gave him that book, when he found out that she wasn't always wealthy.

He knocked on the door softly and pushed it open cautiously. Katrina sat on the couch by the fireplace, facing away from the door.

"Katrina?"

She turned around and he saw that her cheeks were streaked with tears. Her face was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes. Ichabod went to sit beside her, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulder as she quickly brought a hand up to wipe her eyes.

He put his other arm around her as she leaned in and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Did you sleep?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "Every time I close my eyes I see my father…that night in the church…" She trailed off as her words became choked and she hid her face abashedly.

Ichabod tightened his embrace and stroked her hair tenderly. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against a flood of guilt and remorse that caused his heart to hurt. Ever since they had met it was she who always comforted him, with her soft touch, sweet words and quiet, mysteriously calming presence. She'd been through a terrible ordeal and he hadn't even thought of it, so wrapped up in his own feelings and tasks had he been. How could he forget that she had witnessed her own father killed in a most gruesome manner, skewered with a fence post, pulled through a glass window and then beheaded? She'd seen it all. He of all people should have understood and had compassion. Instead he concluded that she was the one controlling the Hessian and wallowed in self-pity.

What a fool he was. How could he ever have believed her to be capable of such horrors? And how did he allow himself to forget his own belief, that truth is not always appearance?

Despite all of his talk of sense and reason, of logic, objectivity and rationality, he'd hastily jumped to a conclusion based on circumstantial evidence. It hadn't even occurred to him to dig deeper; he ought to have known better, especially after mistaking Baltus as the assassin and being hastily proven wrong. Even Young Stephen Masbath tried to talk some sense into him before he set off, intent on leaving Sleepy Hollow and its horrors behind. He reminded Ichabod of Katrina's kind and loving heart, her inherent goodness; but Ichabod turned a deaf ear to those words and scolded the boy, nearly bringing him to tears.

"I'm sorry," he murmured through his constricted throat.

How terrible it must have been for her to wake up and find that he was gone, without so much as a simple goodbye. And what a coward he showed himself to be.

"Everyone I've ever loved, who has loved me…is gone…taken so quickly…" she whispered. "That morning I watched your carriage as it pulled away…I thought you had gone too…you don't know how relieved I was to see you again…"

"Oh, Katrina." He passionately drew her tighter against him. "Please forgive me."

She pulled back and raised a tear-stained face to look at him questioningly.

He shook his head, deeply ashamed and unable to bring himself to tell her of the awful, misguided suspicions that he'd had. All he could do was silently reach over and gently wipe away her tears with his hand.

"Ichabod?" She brought a dainty hand to his face and began to caress his cheek. "It's alright. That's all behind us."

The gaze in her wide brown eyes was full of meaning and understanding. He couldn't hide anything from her, he thought as he stared wonderingly into her lovely face. She saw into his very soul and knew what he was thinking. Without any words spoken, she had already forgiven him.

He leaned down and buried his face in her hair. "You'll never get rid of me," he murmured into her ear tenderly.

"I'll never try to."

**oooOooo**

When they left Sleepy Hollow in mid-December it was flurrying lightly, but now, as they traveled further south through the woods, the snow fell harder, slowly covering the ground with a thick blanket of white. The wind howled as it picked up momentum and blew stronger and Van Ripper had eased the horses to a slow walk, no doubt so that they wouldn't slip and slide.

In the dark carriage Ichabod put an arm around his new wife as she shivered from the cold and held her close, attempting to warm her up. They'd been married in Sleepy Hollow. Neither of them wanted to wait until they finally reached New York City and it was heartening for Katrina to be surrounded by people she had grown up with at her wedding.

"Poor Stephen. I'm certain that he regrets sitting up front with Mr. Van Ripper," Katrina murmured, her face pressed into his shoulder.

Ichabod chuckled softly and kissed the top of her head. "No doubt."

He rested his cheek against her head and closed his eyes with a sigh, luxuriating in the feel of her soft hair against his skin. In all the years of living in New York and working as a constable, fighting a corrupt and inefficient system of justice, he never imagined that there would ever be a Mrs. Crane. Now he was married to the loveliest, sweetest woman he'd ever known and they had a young ward, who they would legally adopt as their child when they reached the city.

The coach stopped moving and both of them raised their heads, startled. He reached over and drew the curtain back from the window and looked out.

"Oh, my God!" Katrina gasped. "Look at it!"

Ichabod opened the door and stepped out. "Wait here."

It was nearly impossible to see through the billowing, swirling mass of white. Van Ripper had already climbed down from the driver's seat and was walking back to talk to him.

"A blizzard, Constable," he shouted in order to be heard over the howling wind. "I'm sorry for the delay. We can't continue on in this."

"Quite right," Ichabod answered, noting with alarm that the storm was increasing in intensity. "We need to find shelter. Is there a village nearby?"

"I'm not sure. But there ought to be an isolated farm or two."

"Very well. Take us to the closest shelter possible. What about Young Masbath?"

"He didn't dress himself warm enough," the burly driver chuckled. "Frozen into an icicle, poor boy."

"Send him back here."

Van Ripper turned around and mounted his seat and Ichabod stepped back into the coach. Moments later the door opened and a shivering, wet, ice cold Stephen Masbath climbed inside and huddled on the floor, curling up into a ball to try to warm up.

"We'll need to get you some warmer clothing," Katrina remarked gently, placing an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Yes, Ma'am," he answered through chattering teeth.

As the carriage slowly pulled off, Ichabod removed his overcoat and put it around Stephen's shoulders, then coaxed him to sit on the seat between him and Katrina.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Assist (10-02, #9)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** R  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**Chapter **__**2**_

One main street ran through the small town that they finally reached, lined with businesses on each side. The majority of buildings were two or three stories high and there was a stable at the end of the road. Far in the distance, among what must have been the farms and fields of the area, Ichabod thought he could make out the outline of a mill and the steeple of a church, but the night was far too hazy and the blur of swirling snowflakes made it hard to determine what he was actually seeing.

While Van Ripper saw to the horses, Ichabod escorted Katrina and Stephen into the building identified with a wooden sign as McKinley's tavern, the only open business at night and, for that matter, the only structure in town that was lit up. He was hoping to discover the name of the town and find lodging for the night.

The heated conversation among the patrons of the tavern immediately ceased upon the entrance of the three strangers and every eye in the room was fixed on them in one collective steely stare.

Ichabod swallowed nervously as his eye swept the room, then he straightened to his full height and tried to appear confident. He gestured Katrina and Stephen over to an empty table that he'd spied and the three of them sat down together.

"What can I get for you?" the barkeep asked gruffly as he approached. He was a youngish man, probably in his mid-thirties, with fiery red hair and blue eyes that were sunken in with weariness.

"Something hot for each of us if you have it. Thank you."

Katrina and Stephen shifted anxiously and Ichabod tried to reassure them with a glance. Unfortunately he wasn't very convincing, as the muscles in his own face were twitching nervously.

The tavern remained eerily quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Ichabod caught the men and women who had gathered there sneaking surreptitious glances at the three of them and whispering to each other furtively. He suppressed a sigh. And he'd thought _Sleepy Hollow_ unfriendly and fearful when he first arrived in that town. Indeed, each one of these men and women behaved as if they were guilty of some crime that they feared would be discovered. He shook off that thought. Fortunately, that was not his concern in this particular place.

Katrina's soft hand closed around his under the table and he gave her a light smile.

After a short while the barkeep returned to their table with three cups of hot cider.

"Thank you."

He was about to turn away but Ichabod stopped him.

"Pardon, I'm wondering if maybe you could assist us. We've been stranded here by the storm. Our driver is putting the horses in the stable right now. Is there any place…in town…where we might stay for the night?"

Instead of answering at all, the barkeep merely studied them carefully.

"There is no lodging here. Go away," a scrawny, sour-looking man with a gaunt face and white hair hissed at them from the next table. "Leave this place."

Ichabod gaped at him, flabbergasted. The man wasn't even making an attempt to be polite. Were these people that cruel and unwelcoming that they would leave them to travel in this storm and probably freeze to death in the cold? Never mind him, but a woman and a child? He couldn't believe it.

"We will pay for your inconvenience, of course…"

"Money isn't the issue," another man chimed in from somewhere else in the room. "There is no one here that has room to lodge you for the night. If you are wise, you will leave."

At that moment Van Ripper entered the tavern with their bags and joined them at the table. Ichabod shivered as he felt and smelled the chill on him, as if the man had brought the cold in with him. Or maybe he was merely spooked by the suspicious, fearful behavior of these country folk.

"Well, I-I…" Ichabod stammered, stunned. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, then gazed at the barkeep imploringly. "Please. It's very cold out and the child has already caught a chill. Even if we have to sleep on the floor here in this tavern after it closes, it would be better than getting lost out there, where we would be sure to die. We can pay you whatever you ask for. Please."

"Most of the rooms upstairs have been locked for a long time now," the barkeep finally spoke up in a quiet, accented voice. He sighed. "I'll look for the keys."

"Jamie, what are you doing…?"

The barkeep put his hand up, abruptly silencing the chorus of protests that began to arise from the others.

"Enough. There's a blizzard raging and it's bitter weather. I won't be leaving a man and his family to freeze to death in the middle of the woods." He turned back to face Ichabod. "I'll look for the keys. If I can't find them, you'll sleep down here. I'll only be asking the price of keeping a fire burning through the night if that's the case."

"Thank you very much."

"And what will you be drinking, sir?" he asked, eyeing Van Ripper. "Cider as well?"

"Make it a whiskey," Van Ripper answered promptly.

**oooOooo**

Ichabod could hear frantic whispering in the tavern downstairs as James McKinley led them upstairs, having found the keys to unlock the rooms. Stephen and Van Ripper were each given a small room with a single bed. Ichabod and Katrina were shown to a larger room down the hall, with a double bed.

Although there were several rooms in the house on the two floors above the tavern, James McKinley lived alone, and not in any of the upstairs rooms. Instead he slept in a back room downstairs, behind the area where the local patrons gathered.

"I don't know how Mr. McKinley can afford to keep this tavern in business, with just a handful of locals and no visitors."

"Perhaps he has another profession," Katrina suggested. "There are farms round these parts, it seems. For all we know he is the town's notary and runs a tavern on the side."

"Mm. Odd that the man sleeps downstairs and leaves two floors of a house empty. This would serve very well as an inn for travelers between the city and upstate," Ichabod remarked as they got undressed for bed. "But I suppose they are too suspicious of visitors here."

He drifted into thought, conjuring a mental picture of the scene downstairs and the tense, fearful look on every face in the room.

"They were all so frightened of us," he murmured wonderingly, lifting the lit candle from the desk and walking toward the end table beside the bed. "Not just frightened. As if they're guilty of something. I still cannot believe that almost all of them were willing to let us freeze to death in the middle of this storm."

"Yes. This little place has also seen much unhappiness, just as we saw in Sleepy Hollow," she added sadly as she climbed into bed.

There was hidden meaning behind her statement and he gazed at her inquisitively. Katrina had an uncanny ability to see things others couldn't. Although it made him nervous and uncomfortable, there was also something reassuring about it. He trusted her intuition.

"What makes you say that?"

"I can sense it."

His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. There was more, he sensed, but she wasn't telling him. "There's something else," he prodded.

"Only that they believe that ghosts roam the rooms and hallways of this little house."

Ichabod nearly dropped the candle. "W-what?"

"I heard some women talking downstairs. That's why the rooms have been locked and no one sleeps here."

He frowned and shook his head, setting the candle on the end table and slipping into bed beside her. "What silliness. Even if that were true, what good would locked doors do? I should think that the ghosts could pass through them, and roam downstairs as well."

Katrina burst into laughter at that. He turned and stared at her in confusion.

"It seems you know all about ghosts," she giggled, poking him gently. "Tell me more. They can pass through doors. And walls, too? What else?"

"What a terrible tease you are, Katrina."

There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she inched nearer to him, kissing him playfully on the lips. He smiled and snaked his arms around her, drawing her close and returning the kiss. Her hair shimmered in the flickering light of the candle as she settled down against his chest and he began to tenderly run his fingers through the golden locks.

"Anyway, after my experience with the supernatural in Sleepy Hollow I have reluctantly come to believe that unfortunately there are a few things that just cannot be explained by science, or the rational mind."

"It's not only the supernatural. There is faith as well. That cannot be explained by the rational mind either. But it is very powerful."

"Yes," he agreed softly. "Well, hopefully the storm will abate overnight and we can set off again tomorrow morning. I will be as happy to leave this place as its inhabitants will be to see us go."

He raised his head and blew out the candle, then settled down onto his pillow. In the darkness Katrina snuggled deeper into his chest with a sigh that made his heart melt and he tightened his embrace, leaning down to kiss her passionately.

**oooOooo**

The sun was already up when Ichabod awoke, his arm still wrapped around Katrina's waist. She faced away from him and his body was curled around hers, his face buried in her hair. He breathed in the scent and sighed. He loved the way she smelled. From the first moment she drew close to him when he arrived in Sleepy Hollow, the honeysuckle fragrance of her had captivated his senses, rendering him lightheaded and unable to think straight. He smiled contentedly and kissed the back of her head.

A frown darkened his features a few minutes later as he glanced around and immediately recalled where they were. He reluctantly extracted his arms from around his wife and slipped out of bed quietly, tenderly pulling the covers back up around her and tucking her in.

One glance toward the window told him that most likely they weren't going anywhere today. All he could see was a cloud of swirling white, as the snow fell as heavily as ever and the wind still howled wildly. The fire was low and he went over to throw more logs on and stoke it. Then he dressed silently and grabbed his overcoat and gloves. He left the room, closing the door behind him, and ventured downstairs.

The tavern was quiet and spotless. He moved to the window facing onto the street and sighed in dismay. Even if the snow stopped, four feet high drifts of snow in front of the window told him that it would be impossible for them to leave that morning. The horses wouldn't be able to traverse such deep snow. All he could pray for was a sunny day that would be warm enough to melt it down enough so that they could navigate the roads once more.

He sighed again and turned, walking back upstairs and returning to the bedroom. Katrina opened her eyes as he entered.

"You're up already?"

"Mm." He removed his gloves, then sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over, kissing her. "It doesn't look like we'll be able to leave today. The storm is still raging out there and the snow is so high, I don't think the horses would be able to get through it."

She sighed and reached up, stroking his cheek tenderly. "Did you sleep alright, my love?"

"Mm-hmm. And you?"

"Very well."

"Good," he whispered, kissing her again.

"Come back to bed. Since we can't go anywhere, you might as well relax." She lifted the cover and patted the bed next to her. "I missed you."

"We'll have to eat eventually," he murmured, undressing and climbing back under the covers beside her.

**oooOooo**

Mr. McKinley allowed Katrina to purchase food for breakfast from him and cook in the fireplace. She offered to cook for him as well, but he had already eaten early that morning.

"I was up early with the others, clearing a path along the road and from the road to the door. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to get out."

Van Ripper joined them downstairs a short time later.

"Where is Stephen?" Ichabod asked. "Usually he is up by now."

"I haven't seen him about yet."

He stood up. "I'll go up and see where he is. I cannot imagine that he's still asleep at this hour."

Ichabod made his way upstairs and down the hall to the boy's room. The first thing he noticed upon entering was that it was very cold in the room, the fire having gone out a long time ago. Odd that the boy hadn't risen when the room grew cold to stoke it and keep it going. He hurried over to the fireplace and started another one burning.

"Stephen?" he called softly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

The boy's face was flushed and his breathing was irregular and raspy. Ichabod placed a cool hand on his forehead gently. His skin was hot. Something else that would keep them there if the fever worsened.

Stephen's eyes opened and he gazed up at Ichabod through teary, glassy eyes.

"Sir?" he croaked.

"Lie still. You have a fever. From now on, as long as you're not dressed properly, you'll be sitting inside with Katrina and me for the rest of the trip. If we ever get out of here."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Fever (10-1, #5)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

* * *

**_Chapter 3_**

"You'll be needing to stay here again," James McKinley stated in his distinct Irish brogue as he and Ichabod sat together drinking the coffee that Katrina had brewed. "The storm still hasn't subsided."

"I apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your hospitality," Ichabod answered.

"How is your boy?"

"He has a fever. Where is the doctor in town?"

"His house is at the end of the road. If you would like I can bring him over here now."

"Yes. I shall go with you."

"That won't be necessary, sir. Stay and look after your family."

He stood up and grabbed his coat, then left the tavern. Katrina entered the room a few minutes later holding the same cup that she'd brought upstairs to Stephen's room a few minutes before.

"Mr. McKinley has gone to fetch the doctor in town."

"Good. His fever is not very high right now, but his chest is congested and he complained of a headache and sore throat. And…I am quite concerned about him. He said something odd to me when I was upstairs." She took a seat at the table beside him, her face creased in a deep, worried frown. "What about tonight? Will there be a problem with lodging?"

"No, Mr. McKinley has already expressed his willingness to let us stay. What was the odd thing that Stephen said?"

"He asked me where the little girl in the house had gone."

"Little girl?" Ichabod asked, his voice suddenly quivering inexplicably.

"Yes," she continued. "I was very tired when we arrived last night, so I may have heard incorrectly, but I'm certain that Mr. McKinley said that there was no one living with him, either downstairs or upstairs, and that all the rooms on this floor and the third floor were locked."

"That is what I heard too. But surely we would have seen a child about if…what else did Stephen say?"

"I asked him about her and he told me that she came into his room early this morning. Her name is Emily."

"What else?"

"The tea I brewed for him took effect and he fell asleep before I could ask him about it further. Perhaps it was only a fever dream. But I keep thinking about what those women were saying."

He immediately thought back on Katrina's words the previous evening, that the townspeople believed there were ghosts in the house. Willfully dismissing the thought, he steadied himself. Despite his recent experience with the supernatural he refused to believe that it would be the explanation for everything that happened outside of the city. Men still behaved immorally without summoning a supernatural entity, or being enthrall to one. Stephen Masbath had a fever and was no doubt in the throes of a delirium during the night.

"A fever dream. That is the explanation, of course," he responded quickly, his voice pitched higher than usual.

She regarded him with a knowing expression. "Let's hope so. I am quite certain that you would not be happy to tangle with a ghost again."

"Quite right."

Katrina smiled and reached over, laying a cool, soothing palm against his cheek. Her touch was like magic, causing him to relax instantly and he reached up, covering her hand with his own and leaning into it with a sigh. After a few moments he lifted his head and clasped her hand, lowering it to the table.

"I am not ready to believe that there is a ghoul roaming this house, appearing to only Stephen. Anyway, I can only worry about him becoming well again." His voice was steady now, his composure regained. "And I pray that we may leave this place sooner rather than later."

**oooOooo**

Dr. Thompson was a grim-looking elderly gentleman with grey hair and dark brown eyes. Ichabod and Katrina waited in the doorway of the room while he sat in a chair beside the bed and tended to Stephen.

"The boy has an infection," he told them gravely when he'd finished and they walked downstairs together. "I gave him a dose of laudanum. It will help him sleep and relieve the headache and sore throat."

They sat at one of the tables in the tavern. The doctor withdrew a pen, ink and paper and began to write.

"I will leave some more laudanum with you, along with instructions for the dosage and frequency."

He handed Katrina a small bottle of the tincture and the paper with instructions.

"Brew him more of your herbal tea as well, Madam. That will help the fever. And a cool cloth on his forehead. If his temperature rises, it may be necessary to immerse him in cool water. Cool, not cold. Cold water will send him into shock. And summon me immediately."

"We will. Thank you very much, Dr. Thompson."

"He reminds me of my father, except that he appears as grim as everyone else in this town," Katrina commented softly after he had departed. "If it weren't for his gloomy expression I think his visage would be very kind."

**oooOooo**

Despite the inclement weather, the tavern was filled with townsfolk that evening, all of them drinking beer and debating in conspiratorial tones. After Ichabod and Katrina finished their supper, he had remained in the kitchen while she brought a bowl of soup upstairs to Stephen's room, hoping that maybe he had regained his appetite. Although he had never intended to eavesdrop, he found himself unable to gracefully pass through that room now that the conversation was in full swing. Besides, he couldn't help but be curious about why these people had seemed so guilty and fearful from the moment they arrived, and he could hear them clearly, though they interrupted each other constantly, leaving sentences that might have contained useful information unfinished, and Ichabod with more questions than answers.

"That Van Ripper fellow called him 'Constable'. A constable! Come to investigate this town, no doubt."

Ichabod sat very still.

"But if he was here to investigate this town, why would he have brought his wife and child with him?"

"To keep us off our guard and make us think they stopped here by accident."

"How would he know to come here?"

"Someone here must have summoned him," someone else chimed in accusatorially. "Who was it? Come, speak up."

"But who would have summoned a constable from New York?"

"New York! How do you know he came from there? Maybe…"

"Look at the way he's dressed, you dolt. Have you ever seen anyone wearing that sort of clothing? I haven't, except for that pompous lawyer chap that Jenner hired from New York two years ago."

"Shh, don't speak of…"

"Listen, the blizzard was real. No one summoned that." It was James McKinley speaking. "And his son is genuinely ill. Dr. Thompson was here looking him over earlier. So there's no sense in accusing anyone over something that probably is a coincidence. What we need to worry about now is _her_."

"There hasn't been any sign of her since nearly a year ago…"

"The boy has seen her."

"What?"

"He spoke of it."

A hush fell over the room like a blanket.

"Now what?"

"If that man is a constable…maybe he can help with…"

"No!" Ichabod recognized the voice that accompanied the fist slamming the wooden table. It belonged to the old man who was sitting at the next table on the night of their arrival, demanding that they leave. "We do not need an outsider prying into our affairs…"

"Will you lower your voice, for God's sake? He's staying in this house. You're so loud he can probably hear you from upstairs."

"But, in New York there must be many crimes of all sorts. He might know…"

"It was you who summoned him, wasn't it? With your knowledge of…"

"Obstinate and suspicious, that's what you are."

"Besides, what would he know about…?"

"Alright, alright. Fighting amongst ourselves will not accomplish anything."

"If the boy has seen her, then…"

"He may not remember what he saw. And even if he does, it will likely be written off as a figment of his fevered imagination if he mentions it to anyone. Or a side effect of the laudanum." That was the calm tone of Dr. Thompson.

Silence had fallen again and Ichabod discovered that he was holding his breath. He quietly removed a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly mopped his brow, which was covered in beads of sweat.

"I say we carry on as before," Dr. Thompson continued. "The snowfall is lighter now, in a few days they will be able to travel again. They'll be gone and we won't have to worry about the constable."

"You should never have let them come in here, Jamie."

"What sort of man would I be to let a man and his family freeze to death? Especially a woman and child! Besides," he lowered his voice an octave. "We are all guilty, every one of us. We knew…even before we were told, we knew. And we did nothing."

"What's done is done. We must move forward from where we are."

"Very well," the rude old man conceded. "But we will not be asking an outsider for help, no matter his profession."

As their discussion shifted and peals of laughter began to punctuate the conversation, Ichabod stood up and silently went to the back door, stepping outside and closing it behind him. In order to get upstairs he would have to circle around the building and enter the front door as if he was just coming in.

**oooOooo**

"Ichabod! Ichabod!"

Katrina's frantic tone shattered his slumber and he woke with a start. She stood right beside the bed.

"W-what?" He blinked and focused on her, sitting up quickly the moment he beheld the anguished expression on her face. "What is it?"

"Stephen is gone! I went in to check on him and he's gone from his bed!"

He was out of bed in a flash, dressing quickly. "He can't have gone far. Maybe he's wandering around the house. Have you looked for him downstairs?"

"Yes. And behind the house, and in the road. There's no sign of him."

Though he was on the verge of panicking, thinking on the conversation he'd overheard the previous evening, Ichabod forced himself to calm down. He needed to keep a clear head and follow a logical chain of reasoning. Besides, how far could the boy have gone in his condition? He had to be somewhere in the vicinity.

"I'll check upstairs on the third floor. If we're lucky maybe he's up there. Please tell Mr. McKinley. It may be necessary to organize a team of men to look for him…if they'll be willing to help us."

The third floor hallway was empty, and they knew the rooms to be locked. Ichabod hurried downstairs to the first floor where James McKinley was hurriedly pulling on his boots.

"Mrs. Crane told me that the boy is missing. I'll ask around. Maybe someone has seen him this morning."

"Thank you."

Ichabod followed him out and peered up and down the main road. The storm had finally subsided, and though flurries continued to fall lightly, footsteps in the snow were visible. It would be a little while before the falling snowflakes covered them up. He spied the set of smaller prints, prints that looked to be about Stephen's size, leading from the door to the road and began to follow them.

Katrina came hurrying after him, wrapped in a heavy cloak.

"Katrina…"

"I'm going with you."

He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her tenderly. "He may return home on his own. Someone should be waiting here for him if he does."

She appeared to be on the verge of protesting, but she conceded with a resigned sigh. "You're right. I'll wait downstairs for him."

Several sets of prints overlapped as he moved further along the road but he kept his eye on the smaller prints, following them to the edge of town. Ichabod stopped, frowning, and gazed off toward the horizon. Despite the blizzard having dissipated, a fog still hovered over the landscape, making it impossible to see very far into the distance.

Observing that only a single set of tracks continued in this direction, he breathed a sigh of relief. If these footsteps did indeed belong to Stephen, he was alone. No one appeared to have apprehended him.

He continued on out of town, following the small tracks for a few furlongs and finally arriving at a remote cemetery. A shiver ran up his spine as he beheld it and he had to physically shake off the eerie feeling. He was about to continue to follow the footprints that marked the child's path through the cemetery when he caught sight of a figure at the far end of the graveyard, sprawled on the ground.

"Oh, my God!" Ichabod cried out breathlessly and moved toward the boy as fast as he could without slipping.

Stephen Masbath lay on the ground in front of a large tombstone at the far end of the cemetery. He wore no coat, the thin layer of clothes on his body were damp and he was shivering convulsively.

"Stephen!" He knelt beside him and slipped his arms around him, pulling him up to sitting. "Oh, God, Stephen, what are you doing here?"

The boy's eyes were half-open and he mumbled incoherently. Ichabod unbuttoned his coat then stood up, lifting Stephen with him and drawing him against his chest. He closed his coat around both of them, hoping to warm him up with his body heat.

"Constable Crane."

Ichabod looked up, stunned to see James McKinley and a few other men from the village approaching the entrance to the cemetery. They hurried toward him.

"Mrs. Greeley saw someone walking this way early this morning. It was too foggy for her to see who it was. But when she heard that we were looking for your boy, she thought it might have been him that she saw."

One of the other men approached and handed him a large thick blanket.

"Thank you." He wrapped the blanket around Stephen then scooped him up to carry him back to McKinley's tavern.

**oooOooo**

Katrina ran off to fetch Dr. Thompson as soon as they arrived home. She had already seen to starting a fire burning in the hearth in Stephen's room and Ichabod immediately brought him up there. He was shivering uncontrollably and his teeth chattered, but his eyes were open fully and he was awake now. After stripping the wet clothing off of him, Ichabod unbuttoned his own shirt and held him against his bare chest, wrapping several layers of blankets around them both and attempting once again to warm him with his body heat. They sat this way by the fire until Stephen's shivering finally subsided, then Ichabod carried him to the bed and set him down.

"Stephen," he urged quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "What on earth possessed you to run about out in this weather? And why did you go to the cemetery of all places?"

"I don't remember going there, sir."

"You remember nothing at all?"

"Only lying in bed and feeling so hot. I couldn't bear it anymore, I had to do something to cool down."

"Well, now you're quite frozen," he sighed.

Stephen looked frightened as he gazed up at him through red, glassy eyes and Ichabod patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"It will be alright. You're going to be alright. Get some rest now."

"What about Emily?" he asked suddenly.

Ichabod stiffened.

"What?"

"I remember now that she was with me. Did you find her?"

"No," Ichabod replied, attempting in vain to keep the tremor from his voice. "You were alone when I arrived at the cemetery."

As Stephen closed his eyes and eventually settled into slumber, Ichabod remained beside him, brooding apprehensively about the boy's inexplicable behavior. It pointed to a serious illness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Snow (5-3, #1)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 4**_

Ichabod sat at the desk in their room that evening and pondered the chain of events that had occurred since their arrival. He made notes in his ledger. Although he had no jurisdiction as a constable in this town, nor had he been asked to look into any crime - and wouldn't be, taking notes helped him to organize his thoughts.

_Emily._

Stephen had mentioned her more than once now. But Ichabod was not yet ready to accept that this Emily was a ghost roaming the house.

What if James McKinley had lied? He claimed that all of the rooms on the two upper floors had been locked until the night they arrived, and that he lived alone. They were lodged on the second floor, which left the third floor empty if he was to trust Mr. McKinley's claim. But suppose there _was_ a little girl of flesh and blood here, kept hidden for some reason? He wrote this question down in the ledger and read it several times to himself. Why a little girl would be sequestered away and denied was something he couldn't fathom, but anything was possible. Of course, if she was locked up, how would she have been able to roam around the house and enter Stephen's room, unless she had somehow escaped from her confines? That seemed impossible, too; she would have had to climb out the window and scale the outside of the house!

Then there were the townspeople who behaved so suspiciously. James McKinley did say they had to worry about _her_ the previous evening, which spurred the others to hush him up and urge him to refrain from speaking of it. Were they referring to the same Emily?

There also seemed to be some concern that _the boy_ had spoken of her. _The boy_ referred to Stephen Masbath, he had no doubt about that.

"_We are all guilty, every one of us. We knew…even before we were told, we knew. And we did nothing."_

He couldn't help but remember those words too. There was definitely something amiss in this place.

Every piece of the puzzle seemed to contradict another and the fragments of knowledge he had gathered so far didn't meld into an even remotely coherent explanation; but he decided it was worth looking into. Any information that might be linked to Stephen's condition and odd behavior was relevant to him.

Resolved, he stood up and lifted the candle that sat on the desk. The usual crowd was gathered in the tavern downstairs, including its proprietor, and tonight they were loud and boisterous. As long as he moved about quietly, no one would be the wiser.

He tiptoed up to the third floor, which was identical to the second floor except for a lower ceiling. It consisted of a long hallway with several doors along one wall, and doors at each end perpendicular to the rest. Live-in servants had possibly slept in these rooms at some point. Moving from one door to the next, he quietly tried the knobs on each. They were all locked. But as he moved to the last door at the end of the hall and tried that knob, he jumped, nearly crying out, as he thought he heard a shuffling sound from inside.

Taking a step back now, he brought a hand up to his chest and took deep breaths. He stared at the door for a moment, watching to see if the knob would turn, or if perhaps someone would light a candle on the other side. The knob hadn't moved when he tried it; it was definitely locked.

After several minutes, no movement or sound came from the room; or at least no sound that he could hear over the beating of his heart. Ichabod turned quietly and tiptoed down the stairs. Back on the second floor, he softly entered the room where Stephen slept and looked around. Only Katrina was there with him, sitting by the fireplace reading. She looked up from her book when he entered.

"Are you alright, my love?" she asked softly, her eyes probing his face.

"Yes. I had thought of something and went to explore it just now. I'll explain later…when I have gathered my thoughts."

She could always read his expressions, always knew when something was wrong. He knew he wasn't fooling her now, but fortunately she didn't press him.

They both looked over toward the bed as Stephen's sleep became fitful and a soft moan escaped him. Ichabod walked over, setting the candle he was holding on the night table, and sat down, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Stephen's eyes popped open and he cried out.

"Shh. It's alright. Settle down," Ichabod murmured softly. "It was just a bad dream."

His fever was raging, Ichabod noted with dismay as he felt his burning hot forehead.

**oooOooo**

Katrina entered the room with a tray and set it on the table beside the bed. Curling wisps of steam drifted into the air from the cup that sat upon it. Beside it there was a bowl and a cloth. She stood beside the bed and held the cup out for Stephen.

"Here, drink," she coaxed, her voice firm yet tender.

"Later," he rasped weakly. His eyes remained closed. "I want to sleep."

Ichabod sat on the edge of the bed beside him and watched in alarm as the boy lay there lethargically, too ill to move this morning.

"As soon as you finish your tea you can sleep, I promise," Katrina urged him. "But we must bring your temperature down."

"My head throbs."

"This will help that, too."

He groaned softly and began to slowly sit up. Ichabod reached out and supported him while Katrina held the cup to his lips and assisted in getting the hot liquid into his mouth.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked after draining the cup.

Katrina placed a gentle hand on his forehead. "You have a high fever and it has weakened you. Keep drinking this tea. It takes time but you'll feel better soon."

Her manner was calm and serene, her tone soothing, but Ichabod could see the deep concern in her eyes.

He rested a comforting hand on Stephen's arm. "Try to get some sleep. We'll both be here if you need anything."

Stephen nodded weakly and lay back down, closing his eyes. Katrina picked up the cloth and dipped it in the bowl, which contained water, wrung it out and placed it across his forehead.

With a sigh Ichabod stood up and followed her as she left the room. He quietly shut the door behind them.

"I don't like it," he brooded, now that they were out of Stephen's earshot and could speak freely. "This came on so suddenly and with such intensity. I know he was out in the cold for a long time when we were traveling, but…he shouldn't have become this ill so fast…"

"I'm worried, too. But maybe this illness was already beginning, and traveling in the cold merely brought it on and made it worse."

"And then running out into the cold half-dressed the way he did yesterday. He is mad with fever, delirious. Katrina, I found him in the cemetery. He thought that little girl Emily that you mentioned was with him, but I found him alone. And…he was lying on top of a grave."

Her eyebrows went up at that. "Whose grave was it?"

"I…I didn't look." He stared at her for a moment, his mind reeling, unable to process what it was she was intimating.

"Is it possible that someone was with him for a time, then left?"

Ichabod shook his head. "When I arrived there was only one set of footprints leading into the cemetery. Unless someone walked behind him and deliberately placed their feet into every single one of his footsteps, which is the only thing that would explain one set of prints for two people, there was no one with him."

"If the weather allows, it wouldn't hurt to look at whose grave it is - just to rule that possibility out."

He rubbed his temples wearily and sighed. Neither of them had slept through the night; frantic with worry, they took turns keeping vigil at Stephen's bedside, refusing to leave him unattended for one moment. And even when Katrina relieved him and he returned to bed, he was too concerned and preoccupied to sleep very much.

"No, I suppose not. The problem is if the grave should happen to belong to someone named Emily."

"When and if that happens we can worry about it. Until then there is no use imagining what may not come to be. I'll look after him for a little while now. Why don't you lie down and get some rest?"

She reached up and smoothed his hair down tenderly, pecked him on the cheek, then opened the door and entered Stephen's room once more.

"Confounded snow," he muttered to himself as she closed the door behind her. He sighed heavily again. "At the first sign of it, we should have remained in Sleepy Hollow for a few extra days instead of venturing out. Then none of this would be happening."

**oooOooo**

It was no longer flurrying when he set off that afternoon, walking in the direction of the cemetery. Grey clouds covered the sky but, despite the lingering fog, the visibility was better today and he observed his surroundings as he strode purposefully along the road.

_Odd that there is no church in town_, Ichabod mused absently.

That was usually the most prominent structure in any town. What he had thought looked like a church steeple in the blinding snow upon their arrival turned out to be part of a mill. Even the cemetery was merely a field of tombstones, with no chapel in its vicinity. But his mind was quite elsewhere and he was too preoccupied about Stephen's condition and about the errand he was embarking on; thoughts of the lack of a church quickly vanished from his consciousness.

His heart pounded in his chest as he approached the cemetery. It was easy to remember where he'd found Stephen Masbath. The grave was in the very last line of tombstones, furthest from the entrance, and the last one on the right. This row was set somewhat apart from the rest of the graves, under a broad maple tree. Given the more private location and the large, prominent headstones, these graves belonged to a family of some importance in this little town.

Prolonging the inevitable, he decided to start on the left and work his way to the right. There were only four graves. Detective's instinct told him that information about this family might prove to be important. He set his bag down and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink blotter. He opened the ledger to a clean page and, dipping his pen in ink, he jotted down the names written on each of the gravestones as he went, as well as the dates of birth and death, and information concerning lineage in the epitaphs.

_Headstone 1:_  
_Rebecca Jenner, born 14th of May, 1757, died 20th of January, 1758, beloved daughter of Mark and Sarah_

"Jenner," he mused aloud. There was something familiar about that name. He examined the dates etched into the stone. "An infant. She didn't reach the end of her first year."

He moved onto the next grave.

_Headstone 2:_  
_Sarah Jenner, born 10th of October, 1739, died 12th of February, 1779, beloved wife of Mark, beloved mother of Rebecca and Abigail_

_Headstone 3:_  
_Mark Jenner, born 2nd of June, 1732, died 5th of February, 1799, beloved husband of Sarah, beloved father of Rebecca and Abigail_

With trepidation he moved on to the fourth and final grave in the row, fully expecting to now see Emily's name written in stone, though there had been no mention of her on the headstones of the other three. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and faced the headstone of the grave where he'd found Stephen.

_Headstone 4:_  
_Abigail Jenner, born 15th of April, 1764, died 20th of February, 1799, beloved mother of Emily, beloved daughter of Mark and Sarah_

"Abigail!" he exclaimed softly. But there _was_ an Emily; Abigail's daughter. Ichabod felt his heart flutter and he took a deep breath, attempting to steady his already frayed nerves. He had to concentrate on facts.

He stared at the notes he'd written. Abigail had died early this year. His eye quickly scanned the page. Mark Jenner, her father, had also died early this year. In fact, he'd died only about two weeks before his daughter. Where was Emily then? There was no grave for her, so it stood to reason that she was alive, and still in this town unless she had been sent elsewhere, to a relative perhaps. But then how would Stephen have seen her, or even known about her?

It didn't make much sense yet, but Ichabod made some notes, then he turned on his heel and walked back over to where he'd left his bag. He put the ledger, pen and ink away, closed the bag and stood up, about to leave. For a reason he couldn't fathom, his eye was suddenly drawn to a lone grave off to the side, sort of in its own row and a few feet away diagonally from Mark Jenner's grave.

_Headstone 5 (different row, isolated, a few feet diagonal from Mark Jenner's grave):_  
_Edna Jenner, born 10th of June, 1733, died 5th of February, 1799, beloved wife of Mark_

"He remarried," he murmured. Setting down his bag, he withdrew his pen and ink once more, took out his ledger and jotted down the information on the same page, above Mark Jenner's name. He shut the ledger and replaced ink and pen in his bag.

Not more than a moment later he stopped, realizing that he'd seen something, and reopened the ledger to the same page. He perused the dates of death again, comparing them.

"Mark and Edna Jenner died on the exact same day! And…the daughter Abigail died only two weeks later!"

This was no coincidence.

Tucking the ledger under his arm, he picked up his bag and began to walk toward the entrance, detouring and walking through every row to observe each of the tombstones, stopping to dust off the snow that covered the smaller stones. He didn't know what exactly he thought he would find; if there was a grave for Emily it ought to have been beside her mother's. Unless…Abigail's tombstone had her father's surname on it, not her married name. Perhaps she never did marry; there was no 'beloved wife' written anywhere in the epitaph. If Emily was illegitimate they may have declined to bury her in the Jenner family plot. But that made no sense either; if that was the issue, Abigail's grave would have been elsewhere as well, since she conceived a child out of wedlock.

A gust of wind picked up suddenly, rustling the thin branches of the large maple tree behind the Jenner plot and the clump of trees beyond the cemetery. He whirled around with a start as he thought he heard whispering. The hair on the back of his neck began to bristle as a chill crept up his spine and he felt gooseflesh rise over his entire body.

He shook his head, annoyed with himself. "It's only the wind blowing the branches."

But he turned and left the cemetery at a quickened pace, deciding that he'd gathered all of the information that could be found there for now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Alone (10-01, #7)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** R  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**Chapter **__**5**_

Ichabod couldn't shake the eerie feeling that lingered even after he left the cemetery. The farms surrounding him were quiet and the ground was blanketed with snow. Everyone was indoors and he was quite alone out here. He shivered and pulled his overcoat tighter around his body.

There was a narrow path forged through the snow along the country road lined on each side with high drifts and he trudged back to town upon it with his eyes cast downward, carefully watching where he stepped so he wouldn't lose his footing and slip. There was a stream that ran between the farmland and the village, and an open wooden bridge with handrails on each side spanned it.

As he drew near the bridge the sound of sobbing made him raise his head. The bridge and its surroundings were empty and he was truly alone. He didn't even see people about in the village. A shiver crept up his spine and he scolded himself once more. It was only his imagination. He felt spooked after spending those moments in the cemetery and discovering that the girl Stephen spoke of, a girl that he couldn't possibly have known about, actually existed. And now _his_ mind was playing tricks on him.

The sobbing sounds had stopped. With trepidation, Ichabod approached the bridge and gingerly stepped foot onto it. His heart fluttered in his chest as he peered over the railing on one side into the stream and along its banks. There was no one and nothing there. He checked the other side. Again nothing.

He slowly turned his head to cautiously glance behind him. Finding no sign of life there either, he turned and hurried across the bridge and into the village.

**oooOooo**

"Whose grave was it?" Katrina asked when he returned from the cemetery and joined her in Stephen's room. She looked up from the book she was reading as she sat at his bedside. "Ichabod? What is it?"

"Nothing." He went over to the large armchair near the fireplace and sank into it wearily. "The grave belonged to a woman named Abigail Jenner. It is on a plot with three other graves, all members of the Jenner family. She did have a daughter named Emily, but there was no grave for Emily."

"Then she is alive."

"If she exists," he sighed, closing his eyes.

"But she must, Ichabod. There is a grave that mentions her, after all."

"Yes. But what happened to her? I'm not sure which I would fear more; that she may be a figment of Stephen's fevered imagination or that she is truly a ghost. Still, she must be somewhere. Perhaps she was sent away to live with a distant relative after her family died. What I don't understand is how could Stephen have possibly known about her?"

"I don't know."

"It's very odd indeed."

"There is something else bothering you," she pressed.

He heard the creak of the chair as she stood up and the soft sweep of her dress as she crossed the room and stopped before his chair.

"Ichabod." Her hand was on his shoulder. "What happened?"

For a long moment he hesitated, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

"It's really nothing, Katrina. With all of this talk about ghosts my own imagination has begun to run away. I…I thought I heard someone crying when I was about to cross the bridge back into town. But when I looked up no one was there. No one is out on the streets at all today." He brought his hands up to rub his temples. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm afraid I became a little spooked poking around that cemetery."

A sharp knock on the door made him open his eyes with a start. He rose to his feet and Katrina went to greet the doctor as he entered the room.

"Dr. Thompson."

"Mr. and Mrs. Crane."

"He still has a high fever," Katrina told him. "I cannot tell if it's growing worse, but it isn't improving."

"If everything else fails, I'm afraid that we may have to bleed him in order to relieve the fever."

"Bleed him?" Ichabod exclaimed in alarm.

"You both look exhausted," Dr. Thompson remarked, evading the question and looking them over from head to toe. "Lie down and rest while I tend to him. I'll knock on your door when I am finished."

"But…"

"Go," he ordered. "I promise that I will not consider such drastic measures without speaking to you in detail about it first."

He shooed them both out of the room and closed the door behind him. Resigned, they trudged down the hallway to their room and wearily climbed into bed.

"You left the door open," she murmured listlessly.

"Yes. If Stephen cries out I want to hear it. I've been thinking about the conversation I overheard the other night in the tavern. I'm very worried."

"As am I."

"Bleeding," he sighed. "They tried using that technique to treat yellow fever during the epidemics in New York."

The constabulary had its hands full then, he remembered. As with any disease or blight, the poor slum east of Queen Street saw the first cases, then, when the disease was running rampant, it touched the upper class. And as with every epidemic, chaos and crime ensued. Victims of such a severe illness were helpless to defend their person or their property and the desperate took advantage of that. In addition to handling the escalated crime they were charged as public health officials as well. Those were terrible times.

"Ichabod?" Katrina's voice interrupted his reverie. "Was it successful?"

"Not very often," he answered pensively. "Thousands died."

She gasped. "You don't think…?"

"No. There are other symptoms that he would have displayed by now."

He clasped her hand and squeezed it.

"Ichabod?"

"Hmm?"

"If Emily was a figment of Stephen's imagination, the people in this town would not be afraid of his speaking of it. Somehow he met her or learned of her existence."

Ichabod sighed ruefully. "Yes. I've reached the same conclusion. What I don't understand is how Stephen has seen her and we haven't."

"Maybe he has a natural talent that we were unaware of."

"What?"

"Or perhaps the fever has merely heightened his senses."

"Then again, the townspeople never mentioned the girl's name. For all we know they weren't even talking about Emily."

"But someone said they heard Stephen mention her. I haven't heard him speak of anyone else."

Neither of them fell asleep lying there, but when Dr. Thompson knocked on the door to summon them Ichabod felt somewhat more rested.

**oooOooo**

"…_I'm tired."_

"…_you'll be better soon"_

"…_I hope so."_

The fragments of the conversation drifted into Ichabod's consciousness through a haze of sleep. One voice definitely belonged to Stephen, he absently noted.

_Stephen's room. That's where he was. It was his turn to watch over him_, he remembered. He had dozed off sitting in the chair beside the bed. His eyes fluttered open slowly as he listened to the ongoing conversation. Two distinct voices, Stephen's and the separate voice of a young girl.

Ichabod snapped fully awake with a start at that realization and raised his head, glancing about frenziedly. No one was there but the two of them.

"Stephen?" he began, turning back to face him.

Stephen's eyes were closed and he appeared to be fast asleep. Ichabod felt his forehead again. Although it was still hot, it seemed to be less so. Perhaps he was slowly recovering.

He sat and stared at him for a long time, but Stephen didn't move or speak again.

With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to the more comfortable armchair near the fireplace, quietly turning it so that he could face Stephen. He stoked the fire then took a seat and leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his head against his hand.

There was no doubt about it. Ichabod had heard two distinct voices; even if he was half asleep, he knew that he wasn't dreaming it.

"How is that possible if there is no one else here?" he murmured to himself.

Was Stephen merely delirious and talking to himself in his sleep? But that still didn't explain the second voice. Unless…could the boy have been so deep in the throes of delirium that _he_ altered his own voice, actually speaking in the persona of his imaginary conversation partner?

Ichabod shuddered at that thought, fearful of its implications. Many a fever had driven a man mad, or rendered a child deaf or blind. He could only pray that Stephen would emerge from this illness and with all of his mental faculties intact. And now Dr. Thompson was suggesting the most drastic of means to induce the fever to break.

He was deep in contemplation and didn't hear the door open. Katrina's soft hand on his shoulder drew him out of his thoughts.

"It's my turn to watch over him. Try to get some sleep, my love."

"No, I dozed off for a little while already, not meaning to…I don't think I can go to bed just yet. I'll wait up with you."

Katrina brought over the smaller chair that stood beside the bed and set it down, taking a seat to face him.

"What happened, Ichabod? You look troubled."

He hesitated for a moment. Then, in a hushed voice, he told her of the conversation that he had heard.

"There was another voice besides Stephen's?"

"Yes, that of a little girl. But when I raised my head and looked around, no one was here. And Stephen's eyes were closed."

"You said you were half-asleep."

"I am certain that I wasn't dreaming. There was another voice."

"Maybe there was a moment when you fell back asleep after the conversation and before she left. When you woke again, she was gone."

"No, I don't think so. It seemed immediate."

Her wide brown eyes probed him.

"If there was no one here, then Stephen was talking to an imaginary person. And possibly changing his voice. I don't know how, but…" he trailed off and frowned.

"Perhaps there _is_ something supernatural happening here. There are stories of ghosts in this house. Something happened to the people living here before."

"What? What happened?"

"I don't know specifically."

"Do you know who they were?"

"No. The crowd that gathers downstairs seems to have a talent for conversing in unfinished sentences."

"You noticed that, too," he laughed dryly.

"What if Stephen is possessed?"

Ichabod's heart skipped a beat and he gulped. "Possessed?"

"That would explain the change in his voice. The Witch of the Western Woods channeled spirits. They would enter her body and speak through her. I often went to her for advice," she explained when she caught him staring at her in shock.

He nodded, remembering all too well his own spine-tingling experience with the Witch of the Western Woods. She'd channeled _some_ sort of…being…that told him where to locate the Headless Horseman's grave.

"But she chose to let those spirits enter her, Katrina."

"Yes. Spirits cannot enter a person who does not allow it. Even evil spirits cannot do that. Stephen has protection from evil spirits, so I would not worry about that."

His eyebrow quirked up. Had she already drawn her pentagram for protection on the floor underneath each of their beds? He hadn't looked, but it made sense that she would have.

"How could a spirit have…?" Ichabod trailed off and shook his head, unable to believe that he was carrying on a conversation about the manner and occasion upon which a spirit would take over the body of a person.

"Have what?"

"Stephen is not the Witch of the Western Woods. Why would he have allowed it?"

"Maybe he allowed it without realizing it. If he was somehow convinced to open himself up in some way…especially if the spirit presented itself as Emily, a little girl."

"Then it would have to be an evil spirit…"

"Not necessarily. Tricky, perhaps."

"Why? To what purpose?"

"I don't know. The Hessian rose because my stepmother stole his skull and controlled him with it. He took the heads of his victims when he killed them…in exchange. But…as soon as you gave his skull back to him, he forgot about me. He had what he desired and returned to the place from whence he'd come."

He shook his head again. "I still think this is outlandish. You think…Emily…or whoever it is…is looking for something? But why Stephen?"

"Maybe there is something about this room he is staying in," she suggested as her eyes roved over the room. "Or perhaps it is simply that he is another child."

"I…I still find it hard to believe…" he trailed off and sighed. "But perhaps I ought to pursue a chain of reasoning in which I assume that it _is_ the case. I shall start by finding out who lived here before. I only hope that this proves to be a hypothesis which is later discounted by the facts."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Eyes (10-03, #7)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 6**_

Having retrieved his ledger, Ichabod returned to Stephen's room and flipped to the page upon which he'd written information on the Jenner family. Katrina had moved her chair next to him and peered over his arm at his notes.

"Both Mark and Edna died on the 5th of February." He spoke sotto voce.

"Edna was his second wife?"

"Yes. He is buried next to Sarah. Edna was buried…near to him, but her grave is not part of the family plot."

"Abigail _Jenner_. Then she was never married," Katrina mused, reading.

"Most likely she wasn't. She is buried with her father's surname…and there is no reference that she was the beloved wife of anyone. I should like to ask James McKinley about Emily, and maybe the other Jenners. But everyone here is so secretive and suspicious. I'm afraid questioning Mr. McKinley or anyone else will prove to be a futile exercise."

He frowned fretfully and stared at the names and dates that he'd written.

"Ichabod!" she whispered, seizing his arm and pointing toward the bed with her free hand.

Ichabod raised his head with a start at her urgent tone.

Stephen had risen from the bed, his eyes open but unseeing, and he was moving slowly toward the door, trancelike. Katrina was about to lurch forward to stop him, but Ichabod stood up and laid a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

"Wait." He kept his voice low. "I would like to see where he goes and what he does. I shall follow him. As long as I'm with him, he won't come to any harm and maybe I can discover what is truly happening to him."

He set off after Stephen as he descended the stairs at the same slow pace, following him out the front door. As the boy wandered down the street, Ichabod stayed a few paces behind, not wishing to startle him. There was a chill in the air and neither of them were dressed warmly enough, he realized.

They reached the stream. Stephen sat down in the snow on the bank underneath the bridge that spanned it and remained still. Ichabod stopped a few feet away from him and watched. No wind blew tonight and despite the chill in the air, the night was quiet and still. Eerie.

Moments later he heard the same sobbing sounds that he'd heard earlier at this bridge. Ichabod crept closer and crouched down beside him.

"Stephen?" he whispered.

Tears streamed from his eyes and the sounds came from his mouth, but it didn't sound like him. The voice was someone else's. Ichabod was so startled that he nearly fell over.

Stephen suddenly turned his head to look at him for the first time. Ichabod's heart froze as he took in the expression in his eyes. He was staring at a stranger. It was Stephen's face, but there was something about the expression in his eyes; somehow the eyes peering back at him belonged to someone else.

Ichabod's heart was in his throat. He was on the verge of addressing him as 'Emily' but he was too afraid that the boy would answer to that name and he couldn't bring himself to do it. A moment later, and without any warning, Stephen leaped to his feet and hurled himself into the stream.

"Stephen!"

Without a second thought, Ichabod sprang into action, pulling off his boots and diving into the icy water after him. He dragged him onto the bank, quickly checking to make sure he was still breathing. Then, having made certain that he was, he hurriedly put his boots back on, scooped Stephen up in his arms and carried him back to the tavern.

"What happened?"

"I'll explain after. I'm sorry, I should have never let him go out."

"Did you discover nothing?"

"No, not nothing. Please bring dry clothing and a blanket for him."

Ichabod set him down near the fire, then took the blanket that Katrina brought over. He stripped off Stephen's wet clothing and wrapped him in the blanket.

"He jumped into the stream."

Her eyes widened in shock. She quietly set a dry sleeping robe on the armchair for him. "I'm going to bring _you_ some dry clothes now. And I'll brew something warm for both of you to drink."

When she left the room, Ichabod took the robe and wrapped it around Stephen, then rubbed his head with the blanket in an attempt to dry his hair.

"Well, at least you weren't in there for more than a minute or so," he muttered.

Stephen's eyes had been closed since Ichabod pulled him from the water; but now they fluttered open slowly.

"Katrina is bringing you something warm to drink."

Bewilderment etched itself across his face as he stared up at Ichabod. Without asking, Ichabod knew that Stephen remembered nothing and had no idea that he'd even risen out of bed.

**oooOooo**

The desk in the room was already strewn with small scraps of paper containing names written on them in Ichabod's elegant handwriting. The names of each one of the Jenners, including Emily. James McKinley. Dr. Thompson. He hadn't learned the names of the others yet, but that was one of the next tasks at hand. He was particularly interested in obtaining the name of that rude, suspicious old man, who no doubt held all the knowledge that he was seeking.

For now, he listed all possible scenarios and the facts that supported their truth in his ledger, including the points that Katrina had made and any connections he could think of to Stephen, for example that the room he was sleeping in had possibly been Emily's.

The Jenners were a prominent family in town, he was certain of that. Three members of that family had died within a couple of weeks of each other, two of them on the same day. Could that have been a coincidence? He highly doubted it and scribbled a few questions at the bottom of the page of names.

_How did the__ Jenners die? Was it natural causes? Illness? Murder?_

If it was murder, was it possible that some angry, vengeful ghost had risen up to possess Stephen? Before he worked in Sleepy Hollow he would have considered it a preposterous notion. Now it frightened him to imagine that it could be true. He'd already seen the supernatural at work and could no longer deny its existence.

And now, after Stephen's somnambulism the previous night and the incident at the stream, he knew for certain that something out of the ordinary was happening. It was as if someone else had occupied the boy's body, peering at him through his eyes, causing him to do things that might have brought great harm to him. Somehow he had managed to keep himself together in order to look after Stephen and bring him home safely. But after Ichabod had finished recounting to Katrina what happened out there, he fainted into her arms. The thought of that look in Stephen's eyes still made him shudder.

He was sleep-deprived and exhausted, and his eyes were stinging. The words he had written on the page seemed to swim in the dim candlelight. He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands and focused on the page again. Taking up his pen, he dipped it in the inkwell and jotted down _James McKinley_ in his ledger. There was something about him that was important but when he tried to recall his train of thought regarding him, his mind was a blank and the letters were drifting out of focus. He wasn't aware anymore if it was day or night.

"Ichabod?"

The sound of his wife's voice snapped Ichabod out of the daze he had unwittingly fallen into. For a moment, he sat there wondering when he'd stopped reading his notes. His pen was still in his hand, poised to write but no longer moving. Had he dozed off?

Her delicate hands came to rest on his shoulders and he raised his head with a start.

"Van Ripper has offered to watch over Stephen for awhile, to give us both a break. Come to bed, my love. You cannot keep going without sleep this way."

"Somehow I have to make sense of this…" he began, then trailed off with a frustrated sigh. "Before Stephen runs off and really harms himself. I'm getting nowhere."

"And you won't until you get some rest and clear your mind."

She came around to stand in front of him and took his hands in hers, coaxing him to stand up. He resigned himself to her care and stood, allowing her to lead him away from the desk.

"While you dress for bed I'll make you a sleeping draught."

He nodded absently and began to unbutton his vest. By the time he'd removed his shirt and pants she had returned with a cup.

"Here."

The taste of the draught was familiar and he realized that it was the same thing she'd given him to drink the night the Horseman's sword wounded him. He was about to ask her what she put in it but thought better of it.

Katrina took the empty cup from him and set it on the bedside table. Then she climbed into bed and slipped underneath the covers beside him, snuggling against him. He snaked his arms around her waist and held her close.

"You must try to relax, my love," she whispered, kissing his cheek gently. "I can feel the tension in your body."

"I'm sorry. It's just very frustrating," he sighed. "These crimes…In New York there is theft, murder, beatings…it's horrific, but…But here and in Sleepy Hollow…in a way the crimes are more shocking. Macabre. They are so tangled up in webs of deceit and buried secrets and lies. And with the supernatural." His voice wavered nervously as he added the last phrase. Although his ordeal in Sleepy Hollow had forced him to face the evidence of supernatural occurrences he still wasn't comfortable with it.

"I suppose the nature of crimes _would_ be very different in New York. There are thousands of people living there. In Sleepy Hollow we are a small society and everyone is connected to everyone. Here, too."

"Yes, I suppose that has something to do with it."

"You've hardly spoken to me about the city, other than the yellow fever epidemics. What is it like?"

"New York is a wonderful place in some ways. But it has its ugly side. There are so many who are sick and destitute, powerless and forgotten in their society. They are the ones who are likely to turn to crime in order to survive. And even if they don't, they are the first to be accused. Theft, murder, beatings. It's horrific. I don't think I'll ever get used to it or to the way the justice system deals with them. Do you know that a constable is paid extra money for each defendant he brings into custody, for each witness he brings into custody and for each prisoner he dispatches to prison? I guess it was meant as an incentive for the men to take their job seriously. Instead they are encouraged to torment the people that they view as a blight on society and accuse them groundlessly."

"What a burden you have taken on, attempting to change all of that by yourself."

He sighed again. "Yes. But…I'm here now, with another task at hand. There will be enough time to fret about that when we return to New York."

Katrina was speaking but suddenly her words were disjointed and incoherent as they floated into his consciousness. The drink was taking effect and Ichabod drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**oooOooo**

"I remember what it was now," Ichabod murmured as he lay awake beside Katrina the following morning.

Thanks to Katrina's sleeping draught he'd slept well and felt completely refreshed. He was heartened to see that she appeared more rested as well.

"About what?"

"James McKinley. The other night, when the people of the town met. We were in the kitchen eating supper."

"Yes."

"He knew that."

"Of course. I passed him when I was on my way to bring Stephen soup. I had to walk through the tavern to reach the stairs. He greeted me."

"And he knew that I had stayed behind. That I could hear the conversation they were having. He _wanted_ me to hear it."

"Why didn't he just ask for help if he wanted it?"

"Because he couldn't. The others didn't want an outsider involved. So, he asked me without…actually asking. I shall have to have a talk with Mr. McKinley today."


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Lies (5-01, #5)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 7**_

Van Ripper had stayed up all night looking after Stephen. Ichabod headed down the hall now to take his place and allow him to sleep. He would review his notes while keeping the boy company and make a list of specific questions for Mr. McKinley.

He was about to enter Stephen's room when he heard the creaking of floorboards above his head. Someone was lurking about upstairs. Pushing aside the fear that welled up inside of him at the thought of his last encounter there he ascended the stairs to the third floor once again. He found James McKinley standing in the hallway, paused uncertainly before one of the doors. To the same room. Perhaps he wasn't imagining the noises he heard that night.

"Mr. McKinley?"

He turned and walked toward him, nodding. "Constable Crane."

"Who lives in that room?"

"No one. There is no one living here besides me, Constable."

He brushed past Ichabod quickly and hurried away. But Ichabod refused to let him go, dogging his footsteps and following him down the stairs, to the ground floor.

"Mr. McKinley, I must speak with you. There are many strange things going on here…"

They reached the tavern and McKinley kept his back to Ichabod, busying himself with putting his boots on.

"I have to step out in a few moments, sir..."

"Mr. McKinley…"

"Leave me alone."

"Not until you answer some questions. Stephen is very ill and has been acting oddly. The other night he might have died if I hadn't been with him. He was sleepwalking outside and threw himself into the stream. I believe that both his illness and his strange behavior are somehow connected to…whatever it is that is happening in this town, possibly in this house. And I believe that you know…"

"It would be best for you to stay out of it, Constable."

"I cannot. The other night you knew that Mrs. Crane and I were in the kitchen, that when she left to go upstairs I remained there. When you and the others were conversing about me, about the boy, about…_her_, you knew that I could hear you. And I believe that is what you wanted. You didn't want the others to accuse you of involving an outsider in your affairs, but you wanted me to hear, and to become involved."

James McKinley stopped in his tracks and turned to face him. He opened his mouth to deny it, but no words came out.

"Whatever is going on, I _will_ get to the bottom of it, if only for Stephen's sake. But perhaps I can help you with whatever dilemma you have, if you will let me. Now you must tell me what you know."

He hesitated.

"What about the Jenners?" Ichabod asked abruptly, wanting to gauge McKinley's reaction to the name as well as gather facts about them.

He was not disappointed. The man's face blanched.

"That family seems to have had much importance in this town. Did they live in this house before?"

"Yes."

"What about Emily?" he pressed insistently. "Is that who you were all speaking of the night I overheard you? When you said you needed to worry about _her_…you meant Emily."

He nodded.

"Where is she?"

"No one has seen her in almost a year. We don't know what happened to her. She is presumed dead."

"Then, she wasn't sent away to a distant relative when her mother died?"

"No."

"What happened to this family? When I went to the cemetery to find Stephen, he was lying across Abigail Jenner's grave. I discovered from the gravestone that she was Emily's mother and that she died just two weeks after her father and stepmother. And that Mark Jenner and his second wife Edna both died on the same day."

"Yes. They were murdered at around the same time of day as well."

"Murdered? How? By whom?"

"A stranger passed through town around that time. He was gone before anything could be done, but we suspected him."

"Who was he? And for what reason would he have killed them?"

McKinley shrugged.

"But Abigail died two weeks later. How did she die?"

"She…was probably killed also."

"Was that stranger still here at the time?"

"Yes. He is our prime suspect for her murder as well."

Ichabod pursed his lips into a thin line. A theory that this stranger was the assassin was flimsy at best.

"I cannot believe that. It must have been someone in town, not this stranger you speak of. Why would a perfect stranger kill two people on one day and wait around for two weeks so he could possibly get caught before finally killing the next person? Did he know the Jenners? If not, what motive could he have for killing an entire family? He would have to be insane, committing murder for its own sake. And what of Emily? What is the theory regarding her disappearance? Also this stranger?"

"You are clearly skilled at your job, Constable." McKinley raked a hand through his hair nervously. "Emily simply disappeared one day and her body was never found. There is no explanation or even a theory."

They both lapsed into silence. Ichabod regarded him somberly as he reflected on the tragic disappearance of such a young girl.

"Is there anyone else you can think of that might have had motive…?" He trailed off when he saw McKinley's face fall, his shoulders sag. He'd hit a nerve. "That stranger really isn't a true suspect, is he? More of a scapegoat, I would say. There is something else going on. Mr. McKinley, if you want my assistance you must be truthful with me."

"No one can know that I am helping you, Constable Crane. The town is already buried in shame. They are reluctant for outsiders to know of it."

"Is the Jenner family what you were speaking of…when you said that you were all to blame? What is it…?"

"Let's go into the kitchen in the back. Someone may walk in on us here."

He followed McKinley to the kitchen and took a seat at the table, wondering what shame might have befallen this place. What had these people done?

"You're right. The Jenners were the richest, most prominent family in our town, and Mark Jenner was the leading citizen. They lived in this house. Mark Jenner had made out a will, of course, leaving everything to Abigail. He remarried about five years after Sarah passed on. Edna Keigher, a woman very close in age to him and an old maid until she finally married him. She was fifty years old. They never had children of their own, of course. About twelve years ago, Abigail became pregnant out of wedlock. Mark Jenner was outraged at the scandal she caused and tried to force her to terminate the pregnancy. She wouldn't do it, nor would she leave town when he tried to send her away."

"Then, Abigail and Emily continued to live in this house with Mark and Edna Jenner?"

"Yes. But there was constant quarreling here. About two years ago, Mark Jenner brought a lawyer up from New York. He changed his will, leaving everything to Edna."

"Ah, yes, I heard someone mention the lawyer from New York."

Ichabod drifted into thought for a moment, mulling over what James McKinley had told him thus far. If Mark Jenner had changed his will, that gave Abigail motive to kill him and Edna. As the next of kin, she would then regain the fortune. But that didn't explain _her_ murder. The next person in line would be Emily; and he could hardly believe that a girl of ten or eleven, as she would have been at the time, could be capable of killing her own mother.

"How were the Jenners murdered?"

McKinley lowered his eyes and he suddenly looked very ill. "Mark and Edna were…killed with an ax."

"What?" Ichabod gasped.

"The murderer chopped them up with an ax." His head dropped and he buried his face in his hands. "It was horrible. Especially him. His face…was hacked in two. There was blood and…brain matter…everywhere."

"Oh, my…God…"

Ichabod closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the table, attempting to steady himself as queasiness set in and the world began to blur around him.

"And…Abigail?" he asked breathlessly, managing to regain his composure somewhat.

"She died two weeks later, in her sleep. Dr. Thompson thought the cause may have been poison."

"Was the body examined afterward?"

"Examined? Good God, no! The poor woman was buried and left to rest in peace. But Thomas Cleary, our apothecary, claims that she purchased arsenic from him a few days before her death. Dr. Thompson believes that she took a large enough dose to poison herself. Suicide."

"I see."

If Abigail had killed her parents in order to gain her father's fortune, for what reason would she then end her own life? Was it unexpected guilt that drove her to suicide? Or was she fearful that her guilt had already been discovered? And why did she murder in such a drastic, violent manner? It was shocking, horrifying, and the idea that a woman was capable of it was inconceivable. Besides, she could have easily used arsenic on them and no one would have known the difference. No examination would have been done. Both Mark and Edna Jenner were advanced in age; the deaths might have been written off as natural deaths, or food poisoning, or any such tragic yet perfectly innocent causes.

The method pointed to such unleashed rage in the assassin, he couldn't begin to fathom it. This was not an intelligent murder and chances were it wasn't premeditated. It was much more likely that the assailant had acted in a state of blind rage.

"Emily disappeared around that time," James McKinley continued.

"You said that you need to worry about her. Why?"

"A couple of weeks after Emily disappeared, we heard noises coming from one of the rooms on the third floor. But when we went in to look, no one was there. The sounds persisted for a few months, then stopped as suddenly as they had started. We thought she…whatever it was…had gone until I heard your boy mention her name. Somehow he has seen her and spoken to her."

"Yes." Ichabod shuddered. "That room at the end of the hall. I thought I heard…"

He shrugged off his jitters, determined to concentrate on finding facts.

"What about you, Mr. McKinley? What is your connection to the Jenners? You must have one, since you continue to live here and have opened up this tavern."

"I worked for them. And…" he trailed off and stared at his hands, lacing and unlacing his fingers nervously. "Abigail and I were…we were lovers for a short time."

"Forgive my asking, but under the circumstances I must. Are you Emily's father?"

"No. As children…teenagers…we met secretly. Then, after Emily was already born we began to spend time together again. We were good friends."

"I see. Do you know who the father is?"

"I don't."

"How did you come to own this place?"

"The town owns it now since no kith or kin ever came forward to stake a claim on the Jenner property. I rented space from them so I could open up this tavern. Originally I intended to open an inn as well and buy the building once I had made enough money. But then after the noises…well, I figured no one would want to stay here. And maybe it's just as well. We're off the beaten path and have nowhere near the amount of visitors that we predicted we might have some day. If you hadn't been caught in the blizzard you wouldn't be here either."

"I will need the names of everyone in this town, starting with its elders."

"Sir, they cannot know…"

"Yes. That is why I will need to obtain that information from you, as well as each person's connection to the Jenners. If I am to keep this confidential I shall not be able to interview them myself."

"I will provide you with as much information as I can."

"And…" Ichabod swallowed nervously. "I would like to go into that room on the third floor and look around. In fact, if you don't mind, I believe I should see all of the rooms."


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Blood (5-01, #1)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

* * *

_**Chapter 8**_

Ichabod jotted down a few quick notes in his ledger as James McKinley described Emily Jenner's appearance. When she disappeared she was ten years old, nearly eleven. She had long dark brown hair, which she wore loose, and brown eyes. He estimated that she was about four feet ten inches in height and quite slim.

"There is a picture of Abigail and Emily hanging in one of the rooms still."

"Good. I would like to see the rooms now, starting with Emily's."

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and approached the room at the end of the corridor. McKinley unlocked the door for him but would not enter. Ichabod nervously walked into Emily's room alone.

He stood in the doorway at first and his eyes combed the room, observing as many details as he could. It had been decorated in muted reds and pale pinks. No one had stepped foot in here for a very long time, nothing had been moved. The room had apparently been preserved exactly as it was when Emily still lived here. A thick layer of dust was settled upon the furniture and knick-knacks, and he spied cobwebs in the corners of the room. There would be spiders here. He began to tremble at the thought and his eyes darted around quickly, scanning the floor for signs of anything crawling.

Finding nothing, he turned his attention back to the desk, which was stacked with elegant stationery, also coated with dust. Ichabod gingerly stepped inside the ice cold room and went to the desk first, brushing off the dust and thumbing through the stationery. It was all blank, save for the _EAJ_ engraved on each sheet of paper in beautiful calligraphy. On the left side of the desk was a lacquered case with pen and ink and next to it a candlestick holder. A red candle burned to half of its original size remained wedged into the holder. He pulled back the chair and opened the desk drawer, only finding more stationery.

Ichabod withdrew his ledger from the pocket of his coat then. He began to write notes about the details of the room, quickly sketching the layout and furniture.

Once he finished sifting through everything on the desk he moved about the room, examining the closet, the shelves and all of the books that lined them, the bed, even the floor underneath it. There was nothing out of the ordinary and he tucked his ledger back into his pocket. But as he made his way back toward the door he spied the small black spider creeping out from underneath the desk.

He jumped and let out a yelp, then dashed out the door, nearly crashing into James McKinley.

"What is it, Constable?"

Ichabod leaned against the wall in the corridor, his hand on his heart, attempting to catch his breath.

"It's nothing," he finally gasped, not wanting to admit to James McKinley that he was terrified of spiders. "I…I was startled."

McKinley instantly tensed up and alarm spread across his features. "Startled by what?"

"There was nothing…just my eyes playing tricks on me." Ichabod rose to his full height and tugged at his coat, straightening it. Having regained control of himself, he turned back to questioning his host. "You still have not told me what brought shame upon this town, Mr. McKinley."

"Why, this horrific crime, of course," he answered. His voice was thin and he refused to look at Ichabod directly.

"The other day I heard you say that you were all guilty. That you all knew something even before you were told about it and did nothing. What is it that you knew? You couldn't possibly have known that the Jenners would be murdered," Ichabod prodded him, undeterred.

McKinley glanced toward the entrance to Emily's room nervously, then quickly stepped over and pulled the door shut, locking it once more.

"No," he finally answered. "But we knew of the quarrels in the family and the worsening violence."

"I see."

Ichabod suppressed a sigh. One thing he'd learned in his years as a constable was how to judge if someone was lying, or at the very least withholding some of the truth. And James McKinley was definitely withholding some of the truth. His eyes had met Ichabod's as he answered, but he was looking _through_ him not _at_ him.

Whatever it was that he was withholding, Ichabod sensed that it was so shocking the man could not bring himself to speak of it. Was it possible that Abigail Jenner had murdered her parents? It was too ghastly to imagine such a scenario, a woman lashing out in such a manner; but with all of the quarreling in the house, perhaps her rage had escalated to a pitch that she could no longer control. Then, filled with remorse, she took her own life. But what of Emily? Had she actually harmed her own daughter too? It was unimaginable.

"I should like to see the other locked rooms now."

James McKinley nodded reluctantly and gave him a tour of the third floor. Abigail's bedroom was next to Emily's. The next two rooms were a reading room, which had also served as a playroom, and a sewing room. Edna Jenner's boudoir was several feet down the hall from the sewing room. The master bedroom, and largest room, was adjacent to it, at the other end of the corridor.

"In which room did the murders take place?"

"Mrs. Jenner was killed in the master bedroom. One of the maids claimed that she had gone up there to take a nap."

"Who was the maid?"

"Her name was Katie Doyle. She left town after the three Jenners were buried."

A perturbed frown darkened Ichabod's features. No doubt everyone who knew anything had been paid to leave town, or merely chased out, he brooded cynically. "And Mr. Jenner?"

McKinley gulped audibly. "He was killed in his study. That's on the second floor."

Ichabod's eyebrow lifted involuntarily.

"Which room?"

"It's…the room next door to where your boy is staying."

He closed his eyes. "Of course it is. Well, I suppose I should be grateful that it isn't the room where he is actually sleeping. Only next door."

"And now, Constable, there is an errand I have to attend to. Could we continue this later?"

"Of course. Just one other question. Where did the servants sleep?"

"There are servants quarters downstairs and in the small building behind this one."

"What about the rooms on the second floor?"

"Guest rooms. Mark Jenner's private study and a separate private bedroom. Your boy is in what was his private bedroom."

"I see. Thank you, Mr. McKinley. I shall have additional questions for you later."

**oooOooo**

Ichabod was in no hurry to minutely examine the rooms where Edna and Mark Jenner had been murdered. No doubt they had been scrubbed clean and there would be no evidence left to find in any case. Still, it was a necessary task, and, as with any necessary task that he loathed or feared, he would gather all of the determination and inner strength that he could muster and forge ahead.

But first he had to relieve poor Van Ripper, who had been keeping watch over Stephen all night long.

Stephen was tossing in bed and mumbling feverishly when Ichabod entered the room. He nodded to Van Ripper and thanked him before taking the seat beside the bed.

"Has he been this way all night?"

"Unfortunately. At times he stopped moving, but his fever continued through the night."

Van Ripper left the room and Ichabod leaned over the boy, feeling his forehead.

"How is he?" Katrina asked softly from the doorway.

"Feverish," he sighed worriedly. "Van Ripper reported that he's been like this all night. After that dive into the icy stream, I fear that whatever illness he started out with is now progressing into pneumonia."

"I'll bring a basin of fresh water and a cloth."

She disappeared once more and Ichabod turned his attention back to Stephen, frowning unhappily. He studied his face carefully. The boy had barely eaten these last days, unable to muster a real appetite and his face was beginning to appear gaunt and haggard. This illness was not a natural one, he thought with a shudder. Something beyond the ordinary was going on here and Stephen's illness was tied to it.

_Is it something about this room?_ Ichabod mused fretfully.

Mark Jenner was killed in the room next door not this one, and it wasn't he who had appeared to Stephen. Still, Ichabod realized, he hadn't paid much attention to this particular room. When Katrina returned with a bowl of water and a cloth, he stood up and began to scan the room carefully, taking note of the details of the room for the first time.

A portrait of the Jenner family was hanging on the wall still, he noticed now. A blonde-haired woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties sat on a divan and a young girl with dark hair sat beside her; she appeared to be in her teens. Sarah and Abigail Jenner, Ichabod presumed. Mark Jenner, a dignified man with dark hair, a thin face and a stern appearance, stood behind the divan and between them.

Somewhere in this house there was a picture of Abigail and Emily and Ichabod began to wonder if perhaps Stephen caught a glimpse of that portrait. Maybe he hadn't met or seen Emily at all, but merely saw a picture of her. And his fevered imagination filled in the rest.

_That would be too good to be true._

If this was the case, it would rule out the possibility of a supernatural explanation. But he knew that they wouldn't be that lucky. Besides, all the other rooms had been locked. There was no way that Stephen could have wandered into one of them and seen any portrait hanging on the walls there. Once more his rational mind was being challenged by the spirit world.

Ichabod's attention was drawn back to the bed as Stephen began to groan.

"Shh," Katrina was trying to soothe him. "Your fever stubbornly refuses to subside."

"Does this mean that Dr. Thompson will have to bleed me?"

"What?" Ichabod exclaimed, shocked. "You heard him?"

"Yes, sir," he answered weakly.

"Perhaps it will not be necessary," Katrina reassured him, her voice filled with tenderness and confidence. "Keep this cloth on your forehead. If you feel up to it, I can bring you more tea. What do you think?"

"Alright."

"What about food? You must be a little bit hungry."

"A little bit."

**oooOooo**

Ascending the stairs to the third floor once more, Ichabod began his inspection with the master bedroom where Edna had been killed.

He walked around the room slowly, observing the muted green décor, the large canopy bed, a rocking chair in the corner. A painting of men and women gathered at a banquet was on the wall above the fireplace. According to James McKinley, a servant named Katie Doyle claimed that Mrs. Jenner had come in here to take a nap. Unless the killer was waiting for her, striking her down when she entered the room, Edna had most likely been laying in bed when she was killed. There would have been blood everywhere given the assassin's method at the time. Naturally that had all been cleaned up immediately, linens and bedding removed, the walls scrubbed, bloody clothes and bedding burned in the fireplace.

After sketching the room and taking notes, he inspected the sewing and reading rooms, just to be thorough. Then he made his way downstairs to find McKinley. Except for the three rooms where the four of them were lodged, the second floor remained locked. He would at least need McKinley to unlock the study, where Mark Jenner had been killed.

Their host had not yet returned, but something else occurred to Ichabod and he hurried back upstairs, to the third floor. He entered Abigail's room, which was still unlocked. Hanging on the wall over the fireplace mantel was the portrait of mother and daughter.

Abigail was a pretty dark-haired woman with wide, soulful brown eyes and great poise and elegance. Dressed in a pale pink dress with puff sleeves and a high neckline and a high bodice, she was perched at the edge of an armless chair. Her hair was worn in a bun. The little girl Emily, who shared the same dark hair and eyes, sat at her feet. She wore a smaller version of the same dress in the same color, but her hair was worn loose.

The expression of deep sadness in Abigail's eyes penetrated Ichabod's very soul. It was the exact same look that he'd seen in Stephen's eyes at the stream, and he was filled with an unreal sense that Abigail had been peering out at him through Stephen that night. Dizziness began to circle his head and his vision was dusted with flurries. He was on the verge of swooning. His knees gave way and he sank into one of the chairs that stood before the fireplace.

For a long time he sat there, waiting for the dizziness to pass and regaining his senses.

"Constable Crane?"

He straightened in the chair as James McKinley entered the room.

"I met Dr. Thompson when I was out, Constable. He will be here shortly."

Ichabod sighed wearily. He was losing all hope that Dr. Thompson's ministering would accomplish anything.

"Have you…discovered anything…?"

"Perhaps."

"I see that you found the portrait of Abigail and Emily. The artist who painted this was very gifted. He captured Abigail's beauty and demeanor perfectly. Her elegance. And her sadness."

"Yes," Ichabod responded, raising his head and looking into McKinley's eyes. "Her eyes."

"You see it, too."

"What…what was it that made her so sad?"

James McKinley merely shook his head, indicating with a shrug that he didn't know. Ichabod's instinct told him that the man knew exactly what it was but wished to evade the question.

"Whenever you are finished with this floor, I'll unlock the other rooms on the second floor for you."

"Thank you, Mr. McKinley."


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Mark (5-04, #5)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 9**_

As Ichabod expected, his inspection of Mark Jenner's study revealed nothing of use. He was able to ask James McKinley questions, since he accompanied him now, such as where Mr. Jenner had been sitting, his position.

"He'd been reading. The book was splattered with blood and had to be burned."

"Along with his and Edna's clothing, I presume."

"Yes, sir."

"And…you said that the wound…he was attacked from the front?"

"His face, his torso. According to Dr. Thompson both Mr. and Mrs. Jenner received more than one blow each."

"Dr. Thompson examined the bodies, then?"

"He did. Or, at least, he inspected their wounds to try to determine the weapon used."

"What about the ax? Was it ever found?"

"N-no…"

"Mr. McKinley, I am determined to get to the bottom of this matter for Stephen's sake. Please do not lie to me."

"The men who came to assist the doctor in removing the bodies also removed the weapon. It was covered in blood and of no use to anyone. They threw it in the fireplace so that the wooden handle would burn. When the fire went out they retrieved the remaining metal blade from the ashes."

"And?"

"That was given to the blacksmith to be melted down."

"What is the blacksmith's name?"

"Kerrigan. Brian Kerrigan."

"When we arrived here, there was an older gentleman who demanded that we immediately leave. Who is he?"

"His name's Dockery."

"What were the relationships of these men to the Jenners?"

"Well, Dr. Thompson was the family physician."

"Of course." Ichabod pursed his lips together as he ruminated upon this information. It would be necessary to speak with Dr. Thompson now. Several questions were already coming to his mind. "And the other two men?"

"Well, Kerrigan was the blacksmith of the town. Naturally he provided cookware and horseshoes for Mark Jenner as well as the other families in town."

"And Mr. Dockery?"

"Ian Dockery is our magistrate."

"Your magistrate?" Ichabod couldn't believe it. The town magistrate had been the one clamoring for them to leave town?

"Yes, sir. He is quite aged now, but he does still have his faculties."

"And clearly something to hide."

Fear flashed in James McKinley's eyes.

"Is there anything else that you can tell me? I do not want to cause trouble for you, Mr. McKinley, but I beg you to help me. There are…many supernatural occurrences here. And I believe that they are tied to the murders of Mark and Edna Jenner. And Stephen is caught up in it somehow."

Ichabod related to McKinley what had happened to Stephen at the stream and the conversation that he'd heard by Stephen's bed, the two distinct voices.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why…why they would want to be using your boy, Constable Crane. Honestly, I don't."

"Yes, I realize that you couldn't possibly know that. But you can tell me about what happened. You told me that this macabre crime has brought shame upon the town, and I don't doubt that. But there is much more to the story. The quarreling among the family…before the murders, had it ever escalated to physical violence?"

"At times," McKinley answered softly, his head bowed.

"Was Mark Jenner a violent man?"

"He wasn't particularly violent, though he had his moments like anyone else, I suppose. But…those were family matters. It was not anyone else's place to intervene."

"Perhaps it was self-defense then," Ichabod murmured thoughtfully.

But that didn't explain two murders in two separate rooms.

**oooOooo**

Ichabod paced back and forth in the tavern early that afternoon, waiting for Dr. Thompson to exit Stephen's room and come downstairs. By the time the doctor finally appeared at the foot of the stairs, he was in a state of agitation.

"Well?" he demanded irritably.

"His condition is not improving, sir. With your permission, I would recommend beginning to bleed him…"

"No," Ichabod replied abruptly. "Absolutely not."

"But, sir…"

"Bleeding him is unnecessary and will do nothing to help him. His fever, his illness…is not a natural one. And I believe that you already know this to be true."

"Sir…"

"Please sit down, Dr. Thompson. I have many questions that I must ask you."

The doctor's eyes shifted to James McKinley, who sat at a nearby table with a mug of beer. McKinley merely sighed and raised the cup to his lips, taking a healthy gulp of the brew. Dr. Thompson turned his gaze back to Ichabod.

"What is this about?"

"The Jenners. You were their family physician."

A look of complete surprise had crossed Dr. Thompson's features.

"Yes, sir," he finally answered when he recovered from his shock. He shot James McKinley another look.

"We've hidden this for too long, Michael," McKinley muttered softly into his mug. "Their spirits will not find peace until this is brought to light. It is not only this town that has suffered from the incident. Now an innocent boy has been pulled into it."

Dr. Thompson turned his attention back to Ichabod, a resigned expression on his face. "What is it you would like to know, Constable?"

"You examined the bodies of Mark and Edna Jenner after they were killed?"

"I did."

"Mr. McKinley tells me that they were both killed with an ax. Is there anything you can tell me about the crime scene? Although I don't have all of the facts, it seems to me that the assassin was consumed with blind rage."

He nodded and sighed wearily. "It was a crime of appalling violence, Constable. Both Mark and Edna each received at least fifteen blows, to the head and torso. And Mark…was struck in the face. There was blood everywhere."

"And…Abigail?"

"Suicide, I believe. It was not surprising really. She was a very troubled young woman. A few days before her death she bought arsenic from Thomas Cleary, our apothecary."

"Do you believe that she killed her parents?"

The doctor's face fell. "A woman committing such a crime? And her own parents?"

"Yes," Ichabod answered weakly. "I admit that I, too, find it nearly impossible to believe. And perhaps there is another explanation. But Abigail had more than one motive. Her inheritance. You have just now admitted that she was very troubled. And…the family quarrels. If she was physically threatened by them, by him, in some way…"

"Mark Jenner was a highly respected man in this town," Dr. Thompson interrupted, his voice curt. "He put a lot of time and money into the building of it and he did much for our small community…"

"Dr. Thompson, please. I'm not interested in slandering anyone or disrespecting the memory of a man. I am only seeking the truth. There is a truth here…is it so horrible that none of you can bring yourselves to speak of it, to even acknowledge it?"

Receiving no answer, Ichabod sighed and took a seat across from the doctor. Once more, he revealed the incidents that had occurred since their arrival. Stephen wandering off to the cemetery and lying on Abigail Jenner's grave. His talk of the girl Emily. The conversation that he'd overheard between Stephen and an unknown voice. The incident at the stream. And he told both of them about the impression that had stricken him the moment he laid eyes on the portrait of mother and daughter; Abigail's eyes.

"I discovered bruises on Abigail's body for the first time when she was about ten or eleven years old," Dr. Thompson began softly. "At that time I didn't think anything of it. Abigail was not like other little girls. She was wild and quite a handful for her parents. When I saw the bruising, I assumed that she fell out of a tree or sustained those bruises during her usual rough-housing with two boys of the village with whom she was always seen about."

"And now you're not sure?"

"There were other occasions, even after she entered her teens and had simmered down somewhat, when I noticed the same kind of bruising. As if someone had grasped her with great violence and strength."

"Then, the bruises resembled fingerprints?"

"Not all of them. But some."

"Do you believe that it was Mark Jenner who had inflicted those bruises?"

"I'm not certain, and frankly it is no one's business. If it was something that occurred in this house, then it was a family matter. Abigail was wayward and it was common knowledge that she took up with several men of the town, old and young. Despite Mark Jenner's efforts to marry her off to any of several fine young men, she refused marriage. If he ever raised a hand to her, it was no doubt to try to bring her into line. If not, it may have been one of the many men that she clandestinely…fornicated with."

"I see," Ichabod answered, his voice high-pitched and shaky. He was becoming quite uncomfortable, not only of the doctor's discussion of the girl's sexual activities but of his attitude and seeming belief that those activities justified her getting beaten.

"I must be on my way, Constable Crane," he told him, rising to his feet. "There is another patient that I must attend to out on one of the farms beyond the village and I would prefer to limit my walking on these snow-covered roads to the daylight hours. Unless you prefer that I didn't do so, I will continue to look after Stephen. Even if his illness is…beyond the natural world, I can at least assist in controlling his symptoms and making him as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you, Dr. We would greatly appreciate that."

Dr. Thompson pulled on his coat and departed. Ichabod stood up and hurried upstairs to the room that he and Katrina were staying in. He retrieved his ledger, ink and pen and returned to the tavern, taking a seat across from James McKinley.

"Would you like a cup, Constable?" he offered, gesturing to his mug of beer.

"No, thank you. I should like to take down the names of the townspeople."

Opening the ledger to a new page, he dipped his pen in ink and began to write.

"Ian Dockery, the town magistrate," he muttered to himself as he wrote. "He seemed most in a hurry for us to leave. What is he hiding?"

"I don't know," McKinley answered.

"Hmm?" Ichabod looked up. "Oh. I…wasn't actually asking you."

"I'll leave you to your thoughts then," he responded casually and stood up, taking up his mug and disappearing behind the bar.

"Dr. Michael Thompson, the town physician," he continued to speak aloud as he wrote. "He knew of evidence that Abigail may have been physically harmed by someone, possibly on a regular basis. Thomas Cleary, the apothecary, from whom Abigail bought arsenic."

"He's also the town notary."

"What?" Ichabod looked up.

McKinley returned to the table, his cup refilled, and took a seat. "Thomas Cleary is our apothecary and he's also our public notary."

"I see." He jotted the information down next to Cleary's name. "Brian Kerrigan, the blacksmith. There was also a Mrs. Greeley that someone mentioned at the cemetery…"

"Yes, Mary Greeley. She spotted Stephen walking in that direction. She is the midwife of the town."

"Did she attend to Abigail?"

"Probably, especially once she was ready to give birth."

"Are there any other leaders of town?" he asked as he wrote the midwife's name in his ledger.

"Father Patrick."

Ichabod looked up, startled. "_Father_ Patrick?"

"Yes, Patrick Murphy. Our priest."

"Priest? I have seen no church in this village, or anywhere nearby for that matter."

"There is one in town. The building is not obvious."

"Why is that?"

"We are Catholics in this village, Constable, and where we came from…there were disputes that were complicated by the fact that the sides also happened to be divided into Protestants and Catholics. We are accustomed to secrecy now."

"Where are you from?"

"Ireland."

Ichabod wrote _Father Patrick Murphy_ in his ledger. "Father Patrick," he murmured to himself as he made the note.

"He performed last rites for the Jenners. Whatever sins Mark committed in life, it is for God to judge him."

**oooOooo**

The tavern was in an uproar that evening. Ichabod listened, sitting at the top of the stairs where he couldn't be seen, but it didn't really matter. Everyone had discovered that the constable from out of town had been asking questions and that McKinley and Dr. Thompson had been answering his queries.

"Send them away," the old man, Ian Dockery, rasped. "That constable has no business investigating anything in this town. Why did you talk to him, Jamie?"

"Because his boy is sick and it is connected to what happened."

"Are you sure of that?" someone else asked.

"Positive. He related certain things…I'm sure of it."

"As am I," Dr. Thompson chimed in. "Besides, we cannot send them away. The boy is very sick and not fit to travel."

"It is God's will," a different voice spoke up, one that was serene and powerful all at once.

"What is, Father? That this thing is coming back up to haunt us?" Ian Dockery demanded.

"This has to be put right."

The old man slammed his fist onto the table. "There is nothing to put right."

"There is Abigail…"

"Abigail Jenner was a disturbed and hysterical woman."

"We all know what type of a woman Abigail was," someone else, a woman, piped up.

"Is that constable upstairs now? He can probably hear every word we're saying."

"He heard us the other night, too. It no longer matters."

"None of this would have happened if you'd made them leave, Jamie!"

"And what of Emily?" James McKinley retorted. "Emily was an innocent little girl. If it was true…"

"The stories Abigail told were ludicrous!" Ian Dockery banged the table once more for effect. "A figment of her twisted imagination."

"Well, there is no turning back now. Perhaps this constable can discover what happened to Emily and she can finally rest in peace. And maybe the hold that she has on his boy will be released."

"_If_ it's indeed Emily who has a hold on the boy. I'm beginning to suspect it might be Abigail," McKinley told them. "Or both of them. In which case it will be much more difficult to save that boy."

Ichabod's head hit the floor with a thud as he fell back in a swoon upon hearing those words.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Lost (5-02, #4)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 10**_

When he awoke he was in bed, his head cradled against Katrina's chest. He lifted his head to look at her. She was asleep. For a moment his mind was in a fog; then the conversation he'd heard came flooding back to him in a rush of memory.

_Abigail was a disturbed and hysterical woman__…the stories Abigail told were ludicrous! A figment of her twisted imagination._

Day by day things seemed to become more baffling. What stories had Abigail told? Clearly the town magistrate hadn't believed them, whatever they were. Had anyone else, he wondered? The townsfolk's opinion of Abigail Jenner was quite obvious, both that of the women and the men.

As a constable in New York he'd seen so many evils of humanity, including vice and licentiousness. Poor women, alone and with no other means of supporting themselves, solicited men who, drunk or sober, would always have a need for their services. They lived in decrepit neighborhoods where robberies, assaults and murders occurred on a daily basis. At times he had questioned many of these women as eye witnesses; but the High Constable and Burgomaster denounced their testimony, declaring them unreliable given their profession and position in society.

Often Ichabod argued that profession and means had nothing to do with whether a witness's testimony was truthful. Many a rich, respected man of society had lied for their own gain. But, as with everything else that he spoke of to his superiors, his words fell on deaf ears. These women were considered unworthy as witnesses, unworthy of anyone's time or attention when they became victims.

He suspected that something similar had happened here. Abigail's story was not credible simply because her behavior did not conform to her society's expectations. And perhaps because the man who heard the story, Ian Dockery, did not want to hear the truth. Perhaps that truth would incriminate him as well.

Before the others interrupted, McKinley had started to suggest that the stories may have involved Emily as well. Certainly Emily did not engage in such activities as her mother; and yet somehow she was involved. How was it possible? He doubted Ian Dockery would repeat the stories to him, but perhaps someone else would. Maybe one of the women.

Ichabod gazed into space pensively, thinking of the evidence of bruising that Dr. Thompson finally admitted, and the conversation he had heard from downstairs, of Ian Dockery's words. Before he fainted, he heard McKinley say that it would be more difficult to _save_ the boy if both Abigail and Emily had somehow possessed him. He used the word _save_.

Dread and guilt gripped Ichabod as he thought of that. Had he taken Stephen out of his home only to face his death in this strange village?

The idea that perhaps it was Abigail that held a hold over Stephen terrified him. Emily was bad enough, but it was a child contacting another child. Both were on an even keel. But Abigail was an adult, an adult possessing a child.

"Dear Lord," he uttered softly.

There was a vast difference in experience and power. What hope would there be for Stephen then?

Feeling much too jittery to sleep, Ichabod slowly extricated himself from Katrina's embrace, taking pains to not wake her, and eased himself out of bed. He dressed quietly, took up ledger, pen and ink, then padded down the hall to Stephen's room in his stocking-covered feet.

"Dr. Thompson," he exclaimed softly, not expecting to find the doctor there now. He was sitting beside the bed, bathing Stephen's forehead.

"He's having a bad night, so I thought I should stay with him."

"Thank you."

Ichabod set his ledger, pen and ink on the desk, then crossed the room and brought one of the chairs near the fireplace over quietly and sat beside the doctor.

"Has his fever gone up?"

"No. But I've already had to stop him from leaping out of bed four times this night. He wanted to run off, somewhere outside no doubt, and he fought me like a tiger when I restrained him."

Dr. Thompson rolled up his sleeves to show him the scratch marks on his arms and the already-forming bruises.

"Look at this."

"I-I'm sorry," Ichabod stammered, gripped with worry. "This is not his way at all."

"Of course, I realize that. There must be some significance to the places where he wants to go."

"Yes," Ichabod sighed. "So far he's run off to the cemetery, Abigail Jenner's grave specifically, and to the stream, into which he threw himself."

He fell silent, pondering the facts that he'd gathered so far. There were many details that he'd noted in his ledger but still hadn't given deep thought to.

"Mr. McKinley has told me that there was a maid, Katie Doyle. She was possibly the last person to see Edna Jenner alive, at least. She knew that she had gone upstairs to take a nap. Do you know if Katie Doyle was still in the house when the murders took place?"

"I don't know. There are servants' quarters in the building behind this one; she may have gone there before the murders occurred. If she was in the house, she was most likely downstairs but would have heard something."

"Why did she leave town?"

"All of the servants left after the Jenners died. They had to find other work. I assume Katie left for the same reason."

"Did she have any reason to want the Jenners dead?"

"I don't think so."

"Who was the first person to find the bodies?"

"Jamie McKinley."

"Mr. McKinley. And…does anyone know if Abigail was in the house at the time? Or had she gone out? She was here for two more weeks after the murders. Did she say anything?"

"Jamie had summoned me, and several others in town. We were here when she returned home and he rushed downstairs to stop her from coming upstairs. The sight of the bodies, of the rooms…was not one for anyone to look at, certainly not a young woman, especially one who was the daughter of the victims."

Abigail had seemed the most likely culprit, and it was along those lines that Ichabod had been forming his logic with regards to this crime. But if she had been out at the time, then someone else was guilty. He would not make the same mistake of jumping to a conclusion too quickly simply because all of the circumstantial evidence seemed to point to it.

He stood up silently and moved back to the desk, opening his ledger and dipping his pen into the ink.

_Katie Doyle – __possibly the last person to see Edna Jenner alive,_ he wrote. _Where was she at the time of the murder? Did she have a motive to kill the Jenners? Why did she leave town? Is there possibly someone in town who knows where she went?_

_James McKinley found both bodies, summoned Dr. Thompson and several others,_ he wrote below that. _Abigail came home while they were already here. McKinley would not allow her upstairs._

"Where did Abigail go that morning?" he murmured, writing it as he did so.

"I don't know, Constable," Dr. Thompson answered.

Ichabod stared at his notes. "What about noise? Did anyone hear screams? Something must have brought Mr. McKinley up to these rooms."

"You'll have to ask him," he replied smoothly.

He made a note to himself regarding that. As he did, something else occurred to him. James McKinley had been Abigail Jenner's lover and he'd admitted that they were good friends, from childhood. It made sense that he would want to protect her from such a sight.

_It was also possible that he might want to protect her even if she was guilty_.

His eyes widened as the realization hit him and he took up his pen again, writing fiercely. If Abigail had committed these crimes and Mr. McKinley found her, he may have persuaded her to leave the house and return at a strategic moment when the others had arrived, making it appear as if she'd been out and just coming home. She would have had to wash the blood off her hands, remove her soiled clothing and put on clean clothes before leaving. She or McKinley would then have burned her bloody clothes in the fireplace.

If this scenario was accurate, he would have waited until she left the house and then gone to summon the others.

James McKinley seemed to be a decent and honest man. Would he shield a criminal? he thought with a spurt of outrage. But a moment later he stopped, shaking his head and scolding himself. What right did he have to judge the man? After all, when he believed Katrina guilty of summoning the Headless Horseman and killing the people of Sleepy Hollow, he had behaved the same way, keeping her supposed guilt secret. He never took her into custody, which was his _job_, nor had he made any effort to even confront her. Instead he threw the ledger, which had any notes that might have incriminated her, into the fire to be consumed by the flames and instructed Stephen Masbath that his suspicions of Katrina could never be uttered.

Dr. Thompson was watching him write, attempting to eye the notes on the page. After allowing the ink a moment to dry, Ichabod closed the ledger and returned to the seat beside the doctor.

Stephen's sleep was restless and his lips moved feverishly, though no sound emerged. Ichabod brooded with great concern as he watched him and thought of James McKinley's words again.

"If _it's indeed Emily who has a hold on the boy. I'm beginning to suspect it might be Abigail. Or both of them."_

"Dr. Thompson, do you know where Emily was at the time? Did she go out with Abigail? Or was she in the house when her grandparents were killed?"

"She was not in the house when I arrived. These are also things that you will have to ask Jamie about."

"When exactly did she disappear? Was it some days after the murders took place? Before her mother died? When?"

"I do not live in this house, Constable, and was therefore not aware of everything that was going on at all times. Jamie worked here. He is a better person to ask. But, I did not see Emily on the day her grandparents were killed, nor ever after that."

"Did she…is it possible…that she may have witnessed the killings?"

"Dear God, I hope not. She was a little girl."

"Yes…I know. But…for Stephen's sake…I'm trying to find out what happened to her. If she witnessed the murders, she may have been harmed by the assassin because of that. Or she may have been so frightened that she ran away."

Of course, if Abigail was the culprit, Emily had witnessed her own mother killing her grandparents. Ichabod shuddered at the thought. Would Abigail have then harmed her daughter to prevent her from speaking of it? It would provide another explanation for her suicide two weeks later. Or reason for Emily to have run away.

"That was this past February. A very cold winter."

"She might have run into the woods and gotten lost," Ichabod murmured, deep in thought and only half-listening to Dr. Thompson. "If she couldn't find her way home, she might have easily frozen to death..."

"The village was covered in snow then too, and the stream was iced over. In fact a couple of children decided to try skating on it, but the ice was too thin for that. It cracked under their weight and they fell through the surface. Thank God we were able to rescue them. Both of them are fine."

"Hmm?" Something about his words caught his attention again and Ichabod snapped out of his thoughts. He turned his gaze to the doctor. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Nothing important."

"I thought I heard…did you say something about the stream?"

"Only that it was iced over. A couple of children went skating on it and fell through the ice. It was too thin. Fortunately they were rescued and both are well."

That water was cold, Ichabod mused. He'd had to leap in to retrieve Stephen. Fortunately the stream was not iced-over now; attempting to find him underneath a layer of ice, in the dark, would have been a nightmare, and might have cost him his life as well.

"The stream!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Did anyone look for Emily there?"

"What?"

"If she did witness the murders and ran away…it's possible she never got as far as the woods. She may have slipped and fallen into the stream."

"Then, she might have frozen to death, or drowned. There was never a search for her in the water. If that is what happened, the chances are slim that we will find her."

"That might explain why Stephen was drawn to the stream and compelled to hurl himself into the water." Ichabod sighed. "And I suppose a search of the stream would be impossible."

"It's too cold. And the stream empties into the river. Once the ice thawed and the water was flowing…her body would have been carried to the river months ago. Then, of course, there are the creatures that live in the water that would have begun to feed…"

His words trailed off as Stephen began to writhe in his sleep and then bolted upright suddenly, eyes wide open and blazing. Ichabod and Dr. Thompson both lurched forward and attempted to stop him from leaving the bed. The boy thrashed wildly, pushing both of them off with what seemed to be inhuman strength. He leaped out of bed and dashed out the door. Ichabod scrabbled back onto his feet and ran after him.

Stephen shrieked in a voice that wasn't his own when Ichabod caught him and wrestled him to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. There was no fire burning in the room and it was pitch dark.

"What the devil is going on?"

James McKinley had emerged from the back room carrying a candle. Little by little the room brightened as he moved about, lighting the candles in the sconces on the wall.

"Constable Crane?"

It took a great effort to prevent Stephen from freeing himself and Ichabod was unable to answer.

"Try to hold him still long enough for me to give him another dose of laudanum."

A disheveled-looking Dr. Thompson had reached the bottom of the stair and he knelt beside them, a shot of laudanum already prepared. Ichabod pinned Stephen's arms against the floor but the boy still writhed underneath him as the doctor prepared to inject him in the arm, struggling to break free. He screamed out as the needle entered his arm then, with a burst of energy, pushed Ichabod off of him and onto his back. Ichabod raised himself up on an elbow and watched in horror as the boy lunged at Dr. Thompson with an expression of absolute loathing and began to tear at the skin on his face. Fortunately the laudanum began to affect him after just a few moments. Stephen's limbs suddenly went limp and he collapsed to the floor.

Ichabod lost consciousness.

**oooOooo**

When Ichabod woke up in the morning, he was alone. Upon sitting up, he found Katrina crouched by the fireplace, chanting. The flames flared as she tossed a handful of some sort of powder into them. He shivered at the sight.

"Katrina?" he began, attempting to keep his voice steady.

"I'm almost finished," she murmured.

He collapsed back onto the bed with a sigh, drawing the covers up to his chin and closing his eyes. Moments later her chanting ceased and he felt her climb into bed beside him. Thin delicate fingers gently stroked his face and he opened his eyes. She gazed at him worriedly.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," she whispered.

"You…didn't," he sighed. He struggled to find words to explain. "Sometimes…things remind me of other things. I can't seem to escape it. I'm still not comfortable with the supernatural and it has been following me everywhere since I left New York. Stephen. I'm frantic about him. His behavior has worsened…"

"I know," she interrupted, her voice soothing. "His screaming woke me up last night. I saw what happened."

"You saw him attack Dr. Thompson?"

'Yes."

"I didn't realize you were there…you didn't want me to see you?"

"No. You would have worried."

Her fingers still caressed his face and Ichabod reached up to grasp her hand. "You shouldn't concern yourself with that. I will always worry about you, no matter how much you try to protect me from it."

She smiled. "I will still keep trying."

"So…what were you doing?"

"It is for Stephen," she answered. The expression on her face had darkened and he became alarmed.

"Was it a prayer?"

"Yes." Her voice was barely audible.

"Is there more?"

Noting the fearful expression in her eyes he inched closer to her and embraced her, cradling her head against his chest.

"Please tell me, Katrina. You don't have to be afraid for me."

"I…I also want to try to make contact with whoever it is that has been tormenting Stephen in this way."

"You want to what?" Ichabod swallowed quickly and regained his composure. "Do you know how?"

"In theory, yes. But I've never done it before."

He released a long, shaky breath. "I am still hoping that we can help him merely by finding the truth about these murders and bringing peace to the victims."

"But if I can reach Stephen and the entities that have seized his mind, maybe I can find out the truth. You said that Abigail Jenner is your most likely suspect. And yet many believe that it is she, not the victims, who has possessed Stephen. Do you still believe that she is the killer?"

"She has the motives and many facts point to her. But…the more I delve deeper and manage to pull information out of Mr. McKinley and Dr. Thompson, the more convinced I have become that she was also a victim."

"Of murder?"

"No. Of something else."

"What?"

"I don't know. There is evidence that she had been beaten on a regular basis, possibly by her father. But that is not all. I sense that something worse was happening to her. I don't know what."

"What about Emily?"

"It's possible that she witnessed the murders. I'm becoming convinced that she ran away then and got lost; possibly she fell into the stream and drowned."

"That would explain why Stephen went to the stream!" she exclaimed.

He nodded. "I know. Katrina, listen to me. If you are choosing to use your body as a vessel the way the witch in the Western Woods did, it will be very dangerous. I know you want to help, but…I don't want to lose you."

"If we can't help Stephen in any other way I have to try, Ichabod. I've had the same thoughts as you. That we brought Stephen away from Sleepy Hollow only to possibly meet his death in this strange place. And like you, I'll do anything I can to prevent that from happening."


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Paper (5-03, #2)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 11**_

After rising from the bed and dressing, Ichabod went to Stephen's room and found Van Ripper keeping watch. Dr. Thompson had to leave to tend the wounds that Stephen had inflicted on his face. The boy was now strapped down onto the bed in order to hopefully prevent him from harming anyone, including himself.

Katrina entered the room moments after, a dressing gown hastily thrown over her low-cut nightgown. She held a stick of pink chalk in her hand and she wore a necklace with a familiar translucent green half-moon shaped bauble on it, prominently displayed against her skin.

His eyebrow lifted involuntarily as he gazed at her questioningly, wondering what she was about to do. "Katrina?"

"I'm going to perform a ritual to ask for blessing," she told him quietly, leaning in and kissing him softly on the cheek. "There is no need to worry."

He swallowed and nodded. "Not yet, anyway."

She moved to Stephen's bed and thanked Van Ripper for staying overnight once again. He stood and bid them both good day then went off to get some sleep.

Ichabod went over and gazed at the boy, who lay on his back with restraints pulled snugly across his body, legs and arms.

"He's going to be frightened when he wakes up and realizes that we strapped him to the bed," Katrina murmured sadly. Her face was creased into a worried frown.

"Or, if it is Abigail speaking through him, he'll be furious and violent." He sighed, then leaned over and kissed her. "I shall return in a while to keep you company, but now I must speak with Mr. McKinley further. And perhaps the others, if they will agree."

"Alright, love," she answered distractedly. Her eyes probed Stephen's prone form with great concern and Ichabod kissed her forehead tenderly, hoping to comfort her just a little.

McKinley was nowhere to be found when he got downstairs and he wandered over to the window, gazing out dejectedly. Several men were gathered along the bridge that crossed the stream. His eyes narrowed and he watched their activities intently. One man was holding a metal rod, which was immersed in the water. After just a few minutes he withdrew it and Ichabod saw that the rod was quite long, with a grappling hook on the end.

_They're searching the stream for Emily's body_, he realized with a start. Curiosity got the better of him. He turned from the window and dashed upstairs to retrieve his coat and gloves.

James McKinley and two other men whose names he didn't know looked up as he approached the bridge. One of them elbowed the man next to him, who turned out to be Ian Dockery. The magistrate bristled, fixing Ichabod with a hostile stare, and his tense posture drew the attention of the others, who then turned to see who he was regarding with such disdain. In a matter of moments the entire group was gawking at him.

"Good morning, Constable Crane," McKinley spoke to him first. "Are you feeling better? We were quite worried about you last night."

Ichabod stiffened and he felt the heat of embarrassment creeping across his scalp and through his body as he realized that these men, or at least James McKinley, had seen him faint; or heard about it. He straightened to his full height and tugged at his coat to tidy it, composing himself.

"It has been a trying time for all of us and I'm afraid I've been terribly sleep-deprived, to the point of exhaustion," he answered, speaking with as much confidence as he could muster. "I thank you for your concern. How is Dr. Thompson?"

The doctor was conspicuously absent.

"Scratched up and bruised, but otherwise unharmed."

"What do you want, Constable?" Ian Dockery demanded. "Haven't you and your family caused enough of a disturbance here?"

"That was never our intention, I assure you. As soon as Stephen is well, we will take our leave. In the meantime, I am trying to get to the bottom of his illness so he can be cured of it."

The magistrate frowned at him. "And what does that have to do with us? For what reason are you nosing around, questioning the good people of this town?"

"I have only spoken with Mr. McKinley and Dr. Thompson and they have answered my questions without any ill will," Ichabod replied calmly.

Ian Dockery had no answer and for the time being he backed down, satisfied to merely glower at him and stew in silence. Ichabod's gaze shifted to the large, muscular man who held the grappling hook.

"We agreed that it would be worthwhile to search the stream and the river. Perhaps you're correct in assuming that Emily fell into the water and drowned." McKinley answered his question before he could ask it. "Dr. Thompson told us that you had discussed it. No one ever discovered what happened to her and it would bring peace to everyone if we could."

"Yes. Dr. Thompson felt that the body…would have been carried to the river a long time ago."

"Searching the river will be a large task. Before we undertake such a huge effort we need to make sure that she isn't here," another man explained. "There are rocks at the bottom of the water here. Her body might have gotten caught beneath one."

"I see."

The man with the grappling hook was now fishing on the other side of the bridge and Ichabod turned away from them. He needed to think and review his notes. Crowds made him uncomfortable, and his concentration would be affected by the stares that were directed at him. He decided to return to the tavern and review his notes.

**oooOooo**

Ichabod stared at the list of names written in his ledger, given to him by Mr. McKinley, as well as the notes that he'd written beside them. Unfortunately the chances of Ian Dockery agreeing to speak with him were slim to nonexistent, yet he suspected that it was the old magistrate who had the most to reveal.

His eye combed the other names. Kerrigan, the blacksmith. Thomas Cleary, the apothecary and notary could very well be in the magistrate's confidence, but in that case he wouldn't say much other than what was common knowledge; that Abigail had bought arsenic from him shortly before her death. Mary Greeley, the midwife.

"Mary Greeley," he murmured, wondering if perhaps she would be more candid. He would have to consult Mr. McKinley before venturing out to her house. It would not be proper to arrive there unannounced and begin questioning her.

Last on the list was Father Patrick. As a priest he was a confidant to all of his congregants; but only within the confines of the confessional. He would be bound by his vocation to keep what was said in confession secret, rendering him unable to help.

He felt helpless, as if he were spinning wheels, and the more time passed without him arriving at a solution, the sicker Stephen became, the more grave his condition. Ultimately he had to deal with a ghost, and he hated it. Every time that thought crossed his mind a chill ran up his spine prompting him to shudder uncontrollably. The sad, angry spirit of a woman who had suffered things in her life that he hadn't discovered yet and couldn't even begin to imagine. And she was taking it out on Stephen.

Pushing the ledger aside he folded his arms on the table and wearily put his head down, resting it on them.

All he could do was keep digging for facts. A ghost was responsible for the murders in Sleepy Hollow, but he was manipulated by a living flesh and blood human being with a motive. The situation here was different. No specific person appeared to be controlling this ghost; but an unresolved, terrible injustice had occurred and the victim was unable to rest. If he could discover this wrong and somehow put it right, perhaps this would change.

His eyes closed and he found himself picturing the bedroom that had belonged to Abigail. The portrait of mother and daughter that hung over the fireplace was vivid in his mind, particularly the sadness in Abigail's eyes.

"Constable Crane?"

He hadn't heard the front door open and James McKinley's voice made him start.

"Mr. McKinley." He raised his head and took up his ledger once more. "I wanted to ask you…about Mrs. Greeley. I should like to question her at some point, but I'm afraid it would be rude of me to arrive at her door unannounced."

"Well, I don't know how much she would be able to tell you, sir."

"I would also like to speak with Magistrate Dockery but I doubt he will acquiesce."

"He won't."

"In what way was he involved with Abigail?"

"Not at all."

"But, the way he referred to her…"

"She complained to him about someone. I don't know the details. She was worried about her daughter, I know that. Magistrate Dockery dismissed her as a hysterical woman making ludicrous accusations. That's all. After…this happened…much of the town began to wonder if there was truth to her accusations and if he'd made a mistake."

"Then he is ashamed of his error."

He shrugged. "Possibly."

"Dr. Thompson has told me that you found the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Jenner."

"Yes, that's right."

"What brought you up to their rooms exactly?"

Mr. McKinley stared at him, dazed. "What?"

"You found the bodies and summoned Dr. Thompson and others. But what made you go into the Jenners' rooms? Did you hear screams? Were you bringing something to either or both of them? Who did you find first?"

"I found Mrs. Jenner first," he answered weakly, swallowing nervously. "I heard her scream and ran up to the bedroom to see what had happened."

"That…is impossible."

"Why?"

"Because, Mr. McKinley, it would mean that in only the few moments that passed between you hearing the scream and reaching her bedroom on the third floor the assassin slaughtered her mercilessly and escaped without you catching even a glimpse of him. Or her."

He regarded Ichabod in guilty silence.

"And then there is the question of Abigail and Emily. Dr. Thompson said that Abigail came home after he and the others had arrived here, suggesting that she was not at home when the murders occurred. But I don't believe that."

McKinley's shoulders sagged just enough for Ichabod to notice.

Even without receiving confirmation from James McKinley, he knew instinctively that his theory about Abigail was correct. After she killed Mr. and Mrs. Jenner she reached out to McKinley, her ex-lover, friend and confidante. He helped to conceal her by sending her away. Then he went to summon the others, claiming that he had heard screams and went to investigate, discovering that the two had been murdered. Sometime afterward, Abigail pretended to be coming home. The question of Emily's whereabouts still remained uncertain.

"Mr. McKinley, how often do I have to tell you? You must be truthful with me. Last night you saw the state that Stephen is in."

"Yes." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"You had a mind to help me. And I ask you…I beg you…Abigail can no longer be punished if she is guilty, but perhaps her spirit can let go of the living and finally rest. All of the evidence I've gathered so far points to her. If you know for certain that she is the murderer, you must tell me."

"I didn't see her do it."

"But you think she did."

"There was blood on her clothing. But that might have happened when she found them. Perhaps she knelt down…well, you understand what I mean…she may have only _found_ them after they had already been murdered…"

"What about Emily?"

"She ran away that day and was never seen again. Abigail was…not herself after that."

"Did you see Emily that morning?"

"No."

"I see." Ichabod shut his ledger and tucked it under his arm, beginning to head for the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Abigail's room. I would like to have another look."

**oooOooo **

Ichabod frowned as he took in Abigail's former bedroom once more, hoping that a second glance might yield something helpful that he'd perhaps missed the first times he'd been here.

Keeping his eyes averted from the haunting portrait of mother and daughter for now Ichabod moved toward the window and glanced out. Despite the grey skies, the visibility was quite clear today. There was a view of the building that served as servant's quarters behind the house. Beyond that was the wide, snow-covered expanse of open ground dotted with houses set apart from each other. These were all farms, now barren and frozen over for the winter. In the distance he could make out the dark edge of a thick forest.

After a few minutes he turned away from the window and walked around the room, studying the details of it once more, absentmindedly running his fingers lightly along the surface of the shelves then rubbing them together to dispel the dirt. His gaze involuntarily shifted to the portrait above the fireplace and he moved toward the hearth. With a soft sigh he sank into one of the chairs before it, leaning on one of the arms and supporting his head against his hand.

The artist, as Mr. McKinley had noted, was indeed gifted, and incredibly perceptive. The portrait was filled with beautiful colors and textures, the painting rendered with deep sensitivity and poignancy. Abigail and Emily appeared real enough to step out of the frame and into the room. Ichabod's head felt light and his throat constricted as he took in Abigail's eyes again. The sadness in them was palpable.

He didn't know how much time passed as he sat staring, captivated, into Abigail's soulful dark eyes, wondering what had happened to bring her such grief, and to possibly drive her to murder so insanely. Even while seated with her beloved daughter her sorrow remained, wrapped around her like a shroud. Somehow that sorrow was the key; he sensed it viscerally. If he could unlock that mystery, everything else would fall into place.

_What is your secret? _

Staring at the portrait would not yield the answer, Ichabod knew, and he shook off the trance. Drawing himself up, he turned to leave the room.

A floorboard in the middle of the room creaked underneath his foot when he stepped on it while making his way back to the door. Startled, he sent himself into a coughing fit after a sudden large intake of breath in the dusty room.

It was an old house, Ichabod thought with a frown when his coughing finally ceased. Old houses creaked. And, naturally, floorboards and shutters and other details loosened and frayed and decayed. But something about this floorboard alerted him that all was not as it seemed.

He pressed it with his foot, to see if it would give way or cave in. It didn't. But when he knelt down and tested the board with his hands he found that he was able to pry it loose with his fingers.

"What did you find, Constable?"

James McKinley had appeared in the doorway and was watching him.

Ichabod lifted the floorboard up and set it aside, then lifted those on either side. "These floorboards can be removed. Something is hidden here."

A locked wooden box, painted in pine green, was stashed in the small, shallow hole in the floor. He reached down and gingerly lifted it up, then peered into the recesses of the small cache in search of a key. It was tucked away in a corner. Withdrawing it, he hastily unlocked the box.

There was a small sewing kit, a scissors, some small packets of herbs and a ledger inside, this one engraved with the initials _ALJ_. Abigail Jenner's ledger.

"Her personal diary," McKinley stated breathlessly. "That is private."

"She is dead, Mr. McKinley. I should say it no longer matters."

McKinley looked stricken and Ichabod instantly regretted the tone of his words.

"Oh," he began sheepishly. "Forgive me, sir. I didn't mean to sound callous or flippant, nor do I want to treat her memory with any disrespect. I am only looking for answers and this ledger may hold them. I apologize for my manner."

His reply was barely audible. "Do what you must, Constable."

**oooOooo **

Ichabod entered Stephen's room, where Katrina still sat by his bedside. She set her book aside and stood up to greet him.

"How is Stephen?" he asked.

"At one point he woke up for a little while."

"Did he say anything of consequence?"

Her eyes lowered. "No. What will you do now?"

"Read Abigail's ledger and see if there are any answers to be found. Katrina, what did you and Stephen talk about?" he pressed her.

"We didn't actually speak. He began to curse at me upon discovering that he was restrained." She studied her hands morosely. "He was not himself."

"I…see," he responded gravely.

"I tried to talk to him…but he wouldn't answer me. It seems that if I want to reach…whoever it is that has control over him, I will have to contact them in a different manner."

That was the last thing that Ichabod would be willing to try and he offered no answer to her suggestion, merely turning away and taking the seat by the fireplace.

"Ichabod?"

"Later."

He opened the leather book and flipped to the first page, dated 5th of December, 1797. Two years ago. Although he'd only found this one ledger in the small cache in the floor perhaps there were filled books somewhere in her room that dated back further. He'd have to take another look at her bedroom, he decided. But for now it would be enough to discover what had been happening in the last year or so of her life.

Resigned to the fact that he was not willing at this time to discuss her idea, Katrina had taken up her own book once more, and the two of them sat together, reading in silence.

**oooOooo **

"Did you discover anything, my love?"

He had closed the ledger long ago and was gazing into space with a perplexed expression, attempting to make sense of what he'd read. James McKinley and Dr. Thompson had admitted that there was quarreling in the family, yet there was no mention of violence, nothing obvious to point to Abigail's sudden descent into madness and lashing out so ferociously at her parents. Something wasn't quite right.

First he'd read the last month of entries, which ended on the 30th of November, 1798. Nearly three months before she died. Then he went back and read the ledger from the beginning to the end.

"I'm not certain," he murmured distractedly. "There is nothing and yet…I simply cannot say what I've discovered."

"I don't understand."

Ichabod turned to look at her.

"This ledger begins a little over two years ago. The 5th of December, 1797. It ends on the 30th of November of last year. Many of the entries are about her daily activities, who she spoke to, that sort of thing. Nothing about her father. Mr. McKinley said that they quarreled constantly. But there was no mention of it, nor was there mention of any violence against her on his part."

"Why would Mr. McKinley and Dr. Thompson suggest that he was violent then?"

"They didn't, exactly. Both of them evaded the subject, and even suggested that it might have been…other men that inflicted violence upon her. There is an entry about Magistrate Dockery. Mr. McKinley told me that she complained to the magistrate about something, but he dismissed her accusations. The entry is one of the last ones and it was written the day she went to see him."

"What did she write?"

"Only that she met with him and that, as she expected, he didn't credit her words. She wrote nothing specific about it." He paused. "And there is something else. Around May of 1798, she started to write some disturbing things about her daughter. Emily cried all of the time. She had stopped eating and sleeping, and she refused to tell her mother what was wrong. And…in another one of the last entries, she wrote something very odd. _She is the same age that I was._ It was written in large, capital letters, as if she were screaming it."

"_She is the same age that I was?_" Katrina repeated, attempting to discover meaning in the words by speaking them aloud.

"A few days later she stopped writing."

"Was there anything of interest written in those few days?"

He shook his head. "Not really, other than the entry about meeting Magistrate Dockery, and that is quite puzzling. She never wrote another word about Emily or what it was that happened to her, to both of them. These last entries are…" he frowned as he struggled for words. "They're detached reports of her day. Where she and Emily went, what they did. Nothing about her father or stepmother, or about anyone else. And then…she simply ceased to write. The journal is only halfway full, so it isn't because she ran out of space."

"Maybe Emily was sick. Is it possible that there was a certain illness within the family that Abigail had, and then Emily?"

"I don't know. But that sentence does mean something. Unfortunately I shall have to interrogate Mr. McKinley further. I expect that he knows but he's suddenly being stubborn about revealing anything. Perhaps Mr. Dockery has exercised his influence over him." His voice shook as he continued. "Whatever it is, I sense that there is something far more horrifying here than an illness passed along from one generation to the next."


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Spell (10-03, #1)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** T  
**Warning:** Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter 12**_

Having written his thoughts on the contents of Abigail's ledger in his own, he set both ledgers aside and now focused his full attention on his wife. He approached Katrina where she sat beside Stephen's bed and took her hands in his, lifting her to her feet gently.

"Some honeymoon," Ichabod murmured wistfully, drawing her into a tight embrace. "I've been so concerned about him, and so wrapped up in clues and interrogations. I've hardly paid you any mind."

The dejected expression in her eyes when he had dismissed her earlier remained in his memory and he was feeling more than a twinge of guilt about it.

"Oh, Ichabod, that doesn't matter to me. It's Stephen's life that's important right now."

"I do worry about you, too." He sighed and slowly shook his head. "As soon as the snow began to fall I should have insisted that we stay in Sleepy Hollow."

She pulled back and her warm brown eyes stared directly into his dark, intense ones. "This is no one's fault. Chance brought us to this place and tangled us up in this situation. Maybe it was meant to be and what this town needed; someone such as you to bring sense to it, to bring the truth out into light."

"I only hope that Stephen does not perish because of it!" he cried.

"Shh." She reached up and smoothed down his hair, attempting to soothe him. "Yes, and it is for this reason that I want to help. Why won't you let me help, too?"

"Katrina, I don't want you risking your life. A spirit already has possession over Stephen. If you get involved and try to allow it to enter you do you think it would hesitate to overtake your will and refuse to let you be?"

"It is angry and vengeful but not at Stephen, or you, or me. I don't think it will harm me…"

He interrupted her with a long sigh and his voice was gentle when he spoke again. "Oh, my love, it's already harming him. I know you want to help. You're the most loving and courageous spirit I've ever known. But…sometimes I wish you weren't so brave. Then again, I suppose you wouldn't have ventured out into the Western Woods if you weren't."

"Magic and the spirit world is something that I understand, Ichabod, and I have more experience than you in that province."

"And your white magic is sublime."

"Don't underestimate me then. I trust my own instincts and intuition. What I sense about the spirits that inhabit Stephen, and yes," she added, catching the shocked expression that crossed Ichabod's features. "There is more than one. Probably Abigail and Emily, at least, as Mr. McKinley suspects. They are not malevolent…"

"Then…you _are_ in contact…"

"No, I can only sense their presence and their essence. Their…feelings."

"But the witch of the Western Woods…well, I'm not certain whether it was black magic, but I did see that she had beheaded a cardinal. I cannot imagine you doing so, not after what you said to me on that day we stood together in the ruins of the old cottage."

"I said that they're my favorite," she answered with a soft sigh. "And that I wouldn't have the heart to cage one."

"Nor behead one, I'm certain. In fact I can't imagine you cutting off the head of any creature in order to cast a spell."

She shook her head but averted her eyes.

"Would you?" he asked in disbelief.

"No. But…only the claws of a raven. After they're already dead," she added quickly. "It is a key ingredient for some remedies…"

He exhaled, releasing a soft shaky laugh. "Is that what you add to that horrible-tasting potion you've had occasion to give me to help me sleep?"

"Yes," she answered, raising her gaze to his again.

"I should think that the herbs without the raven's claw would be sufficient to put one to sleep."

The remark was meant as a light-hearted quip, but it didn't come across the way he'd intended. Tears began to well up in her lovely eyes.

"Do you think less of me then, Ichabod?"

"Of course not!" he exclaimed. "Never…"

Feeling like a cad he reached out and gently wiped her tears with his hand. Then he wound his arms around her, pulling her close again and tenderly kissing her lips.

"Forgive me. I meant it as a joke, but I suppose I'm not very adept at those. And perhaps this is not the time for one."

She leaned in and rested her cheek against his chest. He closed his eyes with a sigh and lovingly ran his fingers through her long flaxen hair.

"I love you so much, Katrina. Please don't imagine for a moment that you're lacking in any way."

She lifted her head and leaned up to kiss him again. "Oh, Ichabod, I love you."

He tightened his embrace, squeezing her in acknowledgement.

"And don't worry. I promise you, I won't be casting any dark spells."

**oooOooo **

James McKinley relented the following day, agreeing to bring Ichabod to Mary Greeley's house.

"If she doesn't wish to speak with you, I cannot help that, Constable," he warned as they made their way toward her home on the outskirts of town.

They had to tread carefully. The temperature had dropped once more and the top layer of wet snow had now frozen over, so that the surface of the white ground was a slick, transparent sheet of ice. A thin layer of ice covered the stream as well and the men of the village had temporarily ceased their search for Emily's body.

McKinley departed after Mary Greeley welcomed Ichabod into her home, claiming an errand that he had to run.

"How is your boy, Constable?" Mrs. Greeley asked, escorting him into a small, comfortable sitting room. He took a seat in one of two chairs before the fireplace and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink.

"Not well, I'm afraid."

"I saw him walking that day. It was a terribly cold and wet day. A young lad…I thought he was going somewhere to play in the snow until I realized that the town was in ferment looking for a missing boy."

"Yes."

Ichabod began to yawn before he could stop himself and brought a hand up to cover his mouth. He was exhausted once again, after a harrowing night in Stephen's room watching him writhe against the restraints, alternately gnashing his teeth, shrieking curses to the air and screaming until his throat was raw in the unfamiliar voice of a wailing woman.

"Excuse me," he murmured, embarrassed. "I haven't slept well and am quite exhausted."

"No worries, Constable."

"Mrs. Greeley, I don't know how much you have heard about this situation…"

"All of it," she replied, sitting down in the other chair. "I am at all of the gatherings in Jamie's tavern, except on the days that I'm too ill to venture out."

"Then you understand why I am asking questions."

"I do. But what is it that you think I can answer?"

"You're the midwife in town. Did you attend to Abigail when she was pregnant with Emily?"

"Yes, and I cared for her immediately after the child was born."

"Did she suffer from any illness that you know of? One that might have been in the family, which she may have passed on to her daughter?"

"No. She was perfectly healthy and so was Emily."

"You cared for Emily as well?"

"When she was an infant, yes."

"This…forgive me…some of the questions I must ask will be quite delicate. There seems to be some evidence that Abigail…might have been beaten by someone." He gulped. "Or worse. I know that she quarreled with her father. Perhaps he became violent with her?"

"And you think I would know something about that?" Her tone was sharp and she stared at him pointedly.

"Well…I don't know," he stammered, taken aback. "Do you?"

"No."

"I…see."

"Mark Jenner and his daughter were very close."

"They were?"

"He was her hero and she was her daddy's little girl." Mary Greeley lowered her eyes and a shadow passed across her features. "This is a small town, Constable. I don't like to gossip, and it would do nobody any good to stir up a scandal now, about people who have been dead for nearly a year."

"Mrs. Greeley, please. What happened here?"

"There was a grisly murder that no one saw," she replied reticently. "A culprit was never discovered. Mark Jenner was the pillar of this town and I don't know of anyone that had it in for him. No one knows what really happened, other than the method by which they all died. And in Emily's case we don't even know that."

"I believe that she saw the murders happen and ran away because she was terrified. What happened after that is still a mystery. I suspect she may have fallen into the stream and drowned."

"Perhaps. Poor thing," she murmured sadly, shaking her head. "She had not even reached her eleventh year yet."

"Mrs. Greeley, I must ask you. Did you ever notice bruises on Abigail's body during the time that you tended to her?"

"Well…I'm not one to talk, Constable Crane, but I trust that you will keep this all confidential."

"Of course."

"When she first came to me before anyone, including Abigail herself, knew that she was pregnant…yes, she did. But after that…well, it would be an animal indeed that would beat a woman knowing that she was with child."

"Was…was there extensive bruising? Her entire body?"

"Not really."

Ichabod sighed. "Dr. Thompson mentioned that some of the bruises looked like…fingerprints. No one has any idea who might have been doing this to her?"

She shook her head. "It could have been anyone. In her time she had many…companions. Someone may have grown angry with her."

He frowned then opened the ledger to a fresh page. He began to jot down the main points of their conversation thus far.

"But I will tell you this," she added, her voice drastically dropping in volume and pitch. "Mark Jenner and his daughter Abigail were very close. A little too much, if you ask me. There was something odd about it."

He was completely confused. "Odd?"

"Yes, odd."

"What do you mean by odd?"

"Odd. Exactly what I said. Something didn't seem right." She shrugged. "Maybe that is why Abigail behaved so outrageously when all is said and done."

"And…he was trying to marry her off after she became pregnant."

"She wouldn't accept any suitors. A wild thing, she always was. And, between you and me, Constable, Mark Jenner wasn't too anxious to see her married, for all of his effort."

"But…he was attempting to…why would…I don't understand," he finally said helplessly.

"Neither did I," she answered with a shrug. "But Mark seemed almost…like a possessive and jealous lover when it came to the men that Abigail…spent time with."

Ichabod was more perplexed than ever now.

"Well, I thank you for your time, Mrs. Greeley." He packed his ledger, pen and ink in his bag and stood up.

She walked to the door with him, bidding him goodbye, and he made his way along the path from her door to the road.

"Constable Crane!" she suddenly called out to him with such urgency that it stopped him in his tracks.

He turned to see her beckoning him back frantically and made his way toward her as quickly as he could without slipping.

"Mrs. Greeley?"

"Abigail's bruises."

"Yes?"

"Well…" Something was on her mind and he could see in her eyes that she wanted to tell him. Fear replaced the expression of longing to reveal a truth and she checked her words. "They did look like fingerprints. The bruises were very bad. Dark, as if she'd been seized with great force."

Now that she had demonstrated a desire to open up more, Ichabod decided to press her. "Anything else?"

For a few long moments she stared at the ground, her head bowed. Finally she raised her head once more, glanced in either direction surreptitiously and then, in a voice that was nearly a whisper, she said, "The bruises weren't on her torso or her arms."

With that, she ducked back inside and slammed the door shut.

**oooOooo **

Ichabod remained staring at Mary Greeley's door, stunned and slack-jawed, for several minutes after it closed before finally turning and heading back to the tavern.

_The bruises weren't on her torso or her arms. _

Seated at the desk in their room now, Ichabod had written this phrase down on a fresh page in his ledger and pondered Mrs. Greeley's half-revealing, half-cryptic words. Dr. Thompson had not commented on any bruising of the face, and neither had Mr. McKinley. It seemed reasonable that they would have shared that fact with him, particularly the doctor. If, in fact, there was no bruising on her face either, that left her legs. And maybe her neck; a dress or blouse with a high collar would have covered any signs of injury.

Just what had happened to her? And what was she talking about when she wrote "_she is the same age that I was"_?

He wrote this sentence in his ledger and then stared at the page. In his mind, he replayed his conversation with Mrs. Greeley over, then set to writing down each of the strange, cryptic things she had said.

_He was her hero and she was her daddy's little girl. But I will tell you this. Mark Jenner and his daughter Abigail were very close. A little too much, if you ask me. There was something odd about it. Something didn't seem right. _

"What was she trying to tell me?" he murmured, utterly puzzled.

There was something in her words, a meaning that he hadn't discovered yet. It was a characteristic that everyone here seemed to demonstrate in their speech. They didn't actually reveal information, but hinted at it with provocative phrases that spoke of something important that he couldn't put his finger on. He didn't know if it was fear of a terrible truth or merely their habit of being secretive, as James McKinley had suggested, but it both baffled him and stirred his curiosity.

Mrs. Greeley's account of Abigail's relationship with her father was quite contrary to that of McKinley and Dr. Thompson. Although the doctor didn't come right out and say it, Mr. McKinley did suggest that father and daughter didn't get along, quarreled bitterly in fact, while Mary Greeley presented a father and daughter that were close; oddly so. And that something didn't seem right about it.

The whole town was ashamed about an incident that occurred here. Was it the crime itself? Or something more? Perhaps others thought that the relationship between Mark and Abigail Jenner did not 'seem quite right'.

He jotted all of his thoughts and questions down, then set his pen aside and rested his chin in his hands with a sigh.

Figuring out the exact nature of the relationship between Mark Jenner and his daughter and how it had changed was the key, Ichabod sensed. They went from being, in Mary Greeley's words, "a little too close" to quarreling bitterly, according to James McKinley's account. Then there were Abigail's bruises, possibly inflicted by her father.

_She wouldn't accept any suitors…and, between you and me, Constable, Mark Jenner wasn't too anxious to see her married, for all of his effort. Mark seemed almost…like a possessive and jealous lover when it came to the men that Abigail…spent time with. _

Is that why they quarreled?

"Like a lover's quarrel," he mused softly.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Unexpected (Author's Choice)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

_**

* * *

Chapter **__**13**_

Katrina had been at Stephen's bedside all afternoon and evening, tending to him. Ichabod ceased working at the desk in their room and walked down the hall to join her, bringing both his and Abigail's ledger with him. When he entered the room he found her crouched by the fireplace, eyes closed, scrawling symbols in the ash with a thin branch she'd gathered and mumbling feverishly. The sight still made him shudder and the roots of his hair prickle.

Her eyes opened and she looked up suddenly, turning to look straight at him. She graced him with a reassuring smile then returned to her ritual. He swallowed nervously and began to take deep breaths, then moved to one of the chairs before the fire and sat down. A thought that had occurred to him many times since he'd met her came to him again. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her beauty, her quiet mystery and her all-seeing intuition completely captivated him. Of course he knew from the moment that he met her that she was a white witch, like his mother. Still, there was something about it that was both comforting and disquieting.

When she finished her chant she stood up and pulled the other chair up to face him. He smiled wanly at her as she sat down, took the two ledgers from his hands and set them in his lap, then took his hands in hers.

They sat together thus, in thoughtful and worried silence. For a reason that he couldn't pinpoint he refrained from speaking to Katrina of his meeting with Mrs. Greeley. Something about the midwife's inflection and tone when she hinted at Abigail's bruises had given him the feeling that he ought not to, and so he remained quiet about it. Somehow his prescient wife must have sensed that he would not wish to speak of it, for on this occasion she did not ask him what had transpired. She merely gazed at him quietly, squeezing his hands tightly, giving him strength and reassurance and drawing it from him at the same time.

"I must continue my work," he told her, breaking the silence after a long time. "I'm at a loss as to what to do, but I can only keep trying."

"Did you accomplish nothing today then?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, frowning. "Every conversation I have, every clue I discover only yields more questions instead of providing answers."

"Dr. Thompson is in Mr. McKinley's room downstairs. I urged him to rest. He watched over Stephen all night and all day today."

Ichabod nodded. "Yes," he murmured distantly. "He said that he would try to keep Stephen comfortable."

She released his hands. "Let me get you something to eat."

"No, that isn't necessary…"

"Ichabod, you've barely eaten anything today. Don't look so surprised. Just because I'm frantic over Stephen doesn't mean that I haven't noticed you skipping meals. I'll return shortly."

He sighed in resignation. "Very well, my love."

Ichabod opened his ledger as she exited the room and began to read over the additional questions he planned to ask James McKinley and Dr. Thompson. Mrs. Greeley's cryptic remarks had provoked many more questions and he intended to cross-examine both men about them. If he could only figure out what she was hinting at, light would be shed on this mystery. He picked up Abigail's ledger once more, flipping through the pages and stopping to reread certain entries whose dates he'd marked down in his own.

"What I really need is the diaries that Abigail wrote in prior to this. If they exist," he muttered wearily.

Katrina returned with a tray after a spell and set it on the desk. "I brought food that I thought would be easy to digest. Come, love."

Ichabod stood up obediently and moved to the desk, bringing the two ledgers with him.

She pecked him on the cheek. "Bread, cheese and an apple. I want you to eat all of it.

"How can I refuse you anything?"

"Unfortunately I cannot say the same for Stephen," she replied sadly and took a seat beside the bed. "The entity inside of him forces him to refuse food and to lash out violently when the restraints are removed."

Despite his nerves and queasy stomach Ichabod found that he needed the food, and he had no trouble eating every bit of it, just as his wife had ordered.

"Did you find Abigail's other diaries yet?"

"No. I don't even know where to look. If there were diaries prior to this one, she hid them somewhere else."

His gaze fell on Stephen and panic began to well up inside of him as he took in the pale, gaunt face. The boy would not last much longer if there wasn't a change very soon.

"Where are you going?" Katrina called out as he suddenly stood up and hurried toward the door.

"I…to find Mr. McKinley."

Ichabod shut the door behind him and turned, intending to go downstairs where James McKinley and the rest of the town were gathered. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the shadow of a dark figure on the stairwell leading to the upper floor. He started and turned to face it. The sweep of pink material was just disappearing from view and the figure was gone, disappearing up the stairs.

He began to sway for a moment but managed to steady himself. With determination he headed up the stairs, following. Once he reached the top of the stairs he glanced up and down the hallway. It was empty in both directions. A moment later the sound of a door closing came from the end of the hall off to his right, causing him to cry out and jump nearly a foot in the air.

Blood pounded in his ears and his heart was thudding. The floor began to tilt beneath him and he moved over to lean against the wall, his hand on his chest. The sound had emanated from the direction of Emily's room.

"It's my imagination," he told himself in a quiet, shaky voice, thinking of the sweep of pink that he thought he'd seen, the color of Emily's dress.

In the past several days he'd been working on very little sleep and even less food, and his mind was playing tricks on him now. As for the sound of a door, James McKinley had unlocked the doors, and that one must have been left slightly ajar. A slight breeze in the hallway must have blown it shut. Or...perhaps he _had_ seen something after all.

It wouldn't hurt to take another look in all of the rooms, he decided after gathering his thoughts. After all, he'd found the ledger on a third search of Abigail's room. He hadn't yet tested all of the floorboards. Perhaps there were more of them that could be removed.

But he would not go alone.

**oooOooo**

It was late when he made his way downstairs to the first floor, but a handful of people remained in the tavern with James McKinley. Ian Dockery was among them and he glared at Ichabod when he saw him.

"Constable Crane," McKinley greeted him.

Ichabod nodded. "Mr. McKinley. Pardon my intrusion. When you have a moment, I will need your assistance."

"Of course. Is anything wrong, sir?"

"The entities are growing bolder," Ichabod continued, trying to will his voice to stop shaking. "Stephen is possessed by Abigail, I believe. And just now…Emily allowed me a quick glimpse of her."

He had been almost certain of this after leaving the third floor and mulling over what he thought he glimpsed, and the events that had been occurring. Saying it aloud made the truth resonate inside of him.

"What?" McKinley gasped.

"Utter nonsense," Magistrate Dockery interjected. "You were dreaming."

"Stephen's condition…continues to worsen. His illness is not natural, it's…supernatural. I've been certain of that for several days now. It is imperative that I discover what has occurred here. I believe that is the key to putting these spirits to rest finally, as well as freeing Stephen from their grip. If there is anything that you can tell me, sir…"

"There is nothing here for you to discover."

"Magistrate Dockery…"

"Abigail was hysterical, making such accusations!" he exploded, slamming his fist on the table. "I will not speak of this anymore, Constable!"

Tense silence filled the room for a few minutes before Ichabod broke it, speaking in a firm but quiet voice.

"I apologize for troubling you this much, sir. But with all due respect, I do not agree. I shall not demand that you confide in me, but I _beg_ you. If there is anything that you can tell me that would shed light on this, please do so. I know that something terrible happened to Abigail, and possibly to Emily. I also know that Abigail approached you and spoke to you about it. And I promise you, I don't wish to lay blame on you or anyone else here, nor do I wish to create problems in this town. I simply want to save a boy's life."

Ian Dockery frowned sourly and didn't answer. About a quarter of an hour later the stragglers departed and Ichabod was left alone in the tavern with James McKinley.

"You need my assistance, Constable?"

"Yes, but first…I must speak with you about several things."

McKinley nodded mutely.

"As you are aware, I spoke with Mary Greeley today. I thank you for arranging that for me. What she had to say was somewhat different than…well…she said that Abigail and her father were very close. In fact…" he gulped involuntarily. "In fact, she remarked that they were unnaturally so…"

He trailed off as he observed that James McKinley seemed to be squirming in his seat.

"What did she mean?" he pressed on.

"Didn't she tell you what she meant?"

"No. That was all she said."

"Well then…I couldn't say."

Ichabod sighed. He knew that his answer wasn't truthful and he was exasperated at being stymied once more.

"You said you saw…where did you see Emily, Constable?"

"I glimpsed her on the stairwell leading to the third floor. And then…when I followed…I believe she was leading me to her old room. I should like to examine the rooms upstairs again. But it is dark and I will need your assistance in keeping the room light enough for me to see."

"Wouldn't it be wiser to wait until morning, Constable?"

"As much as I would love to wait until daylight, I'm afraid it's pressing. Stephen's condition grows worse and I cannot afford to procrastinate," he answered curtly. "Magistrate Dockery refuses to speak about it. You have indicated that you cannot shed any light on what Mary Greeley said. Therefore I must attempt to discover the truth by other means."

Ichabod stood up abruptly and gestured for him to follow. They headed upstairs to the top floor with lanterns in hand. Ichabod led them to Emily's room first, since it was from there that he'd heard the sound of the door shutting. It was freezing inside.

With the room now partially lit, Ichabod tested the floorboards to see if he could find any that were loose.

"You are looking for more hidden storage in the floor, then, Constable?"

"Yes. Abigail's diary goes back to December of 1897. Two years ago. There must be prior journals. It seems unlikely that she would have so recently begun to write in a diary. Perhaps she wrote about what happened to her."

"I see," McKinley answered in a tight voice.

Ichabod frowned as his sharp eyes skirted the room. He'd searched this room before, but he'd been in a different frame of mind, uncertain as to what he was looking for then. It was different now. He knew that he was searching for a ledger. Though why Abigail's ledgers would have been in Emily's room was beyond him. Still, this is where the vision of the phantasm had led him.

Quickly, he moved to the desk and searched the drawers once more. He found nothing but stationery and moved on to the rest of the room. After careful examination of the bookshelves, he found what appeared to be a ledger. It was very thick and bound in leather. He took it from the shelf and searched the surrounding books. Grabbing several similar-looking leather-bound volumes, he turned and walked to the door, motioning for McKinley to grab the lanterns and follow.

Once in the hallway, McKinley set down one of the lanterns and shut the door.

Thumbing through one of the volumes quickly, Ichabod found it to be filled with drawings, along with short dated entries. The other books appeared to contain the same. Emily had a very artistic hand, he thought sadly as he glimpsed some of the detailed figures that she had drawn.

"Those were Emily's sketchbooks. She was quite good. Abigail spoke of hiring a drawing master to teach her further."

"It appears that she wrote in here as well."

Ichabod turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, carrying the volumes that he'd gathered. McKinley followed him.

"Will you be needing to search any of the other rooms then?"

"No, that won't be necessary yet. I shall start with this discovery and continue searching tomorrow. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. McKinley."

They descended to the second floor and Ichabod turned toward Stephen's room.

"I bid you goodnight then, Constable."

"Goodnight."

Katrina was sitting beside Stephen's bed reading when he entered the room.

"Where did you go?"

Ichabod told her of his glimpse of Emily and he showed her the books he had retrieved from her room.

"Maybe I was imagining things."

"No, I don't think so, Ichabod. This house is genuinely haunted."

On shaky legs he moved to the desk, where he'd left Abigail's ledger and his own, and took a seat.

"And…she was leading me to her room, so I would find these volumes. Her…artistic journals."

At that moment, the door opened and Dr. Thompson stepped into the room.

"I'll look after him, if you both want to get some sleep now."

Ichabod watched him as he set his bag on the desk and withdrew a syringe and a tincture of medicine. An idea began to form in his mind as he watched the physician fill the syringe.

"I want to have it ready in the event that he wakes up and is violent," he explained, noticing that Ichabod was staring at him.

"Dr. Thompson, Stephen has lost far too much weight and he has not been taking in any nourishment. Is it possible to inject him with nutrients, perhaps a solution of water with sugar and salt? It is not enough, I realize, but at least it would be something."

The doctor looked thoughtful. "That is an interesting idea, Constable. And it's worth trying."

"I'll go downstairs and start boiling water," Katrina offered. "I'll dissolve the sugar and salt and bring it up when it has cooled."

**oooOooo**

Seated once more at the desk in their room, Ichabod perused Emily's sketchbooks. After scanning the dates of the entries, he chose the book that was dated 1st March, 1898 on the very first page, intending to investigate the dates that coincided with those in which Abigail spoke of Emily's refusal to eat and sleep. He was relying on the fact that perhaps Emily herself confided in her personal journal what was troubling her.

Pages and pages of the ledger were filled with drawings and sketches, interspersed with written entries here and there about what she did during the day. Her birthday was 15th March and she wrote in great detail about the party that her mother organized for her tenth birthday, and how happy it made her. But for the most part she had expressed herself in her drawings. There were portraits of people from town as well as her family, sketches of the house, of the main street, of the river and wood.

_She would have been an excellent artist._

Ichabod sighed sadly at the thought and continued to scan the drawings and entries. The depth of emotion captured in the faces of the finely drawn, detailed pictures of people and their uncanny resemblance to the members of her family astonished him. She had perfectly captured Mark Jenner's features and their sternness, which he'd seen in the family portrait, as well as her mother's elegant beauty and haunted visage. And she'd even drawn herself well. Emily had possessed a true gift.

He scanned the pages quickly, stopping to read the dated, written entries, and then moving on. As he turned several pages among the late April and early May entries, he stopped, suddenly realizing that he'd seen something. Flipping back, he found the picture that had given him pause and stared at it.

Emily had drawn herself with a sash tied around her head, covering her mouth. Edna Jenner stood off to the side, a blindfold tied around her head. The picture was three dimensional and Mark Jenner stood behind her and off to one side. His face looked angry and threatening. Abigail was not in this picture.

There were almost no written entries after that. He studied the self-portrait drawings carefully, noting two recurring themes. Either she drew herself with the sash covering her mouth; or in tears, without the sash. Mark Jenner always looked threatening, no matter the posture in which he was drawn. There were several drawings of Emily lying in bed with her grandfather sitting on the edge looking down at her. Sometimes his hand was over her mouth.

Something about those pictures made Ichabod shudder for a reason he could not credit. He instinctively knew somehow that she was attempting to express what was troubling her in these drawings. Had Mark Jenner been beating her as well?

Ichabod marked the place where he'd stopped with a scrap of paper, then backtracked to see if there were any pictures of Emily with the sash over her mouth prior to that late April entry. There were not. Something had changed in Emily's life at the end of April.

He combed the rest of the ledger carefully, examining the drawings with painstaking attention to detail. When he got through the entire book, he stood up and stretched, trying to work out the aches that had gripped his muscles from sitting in one position for too long.

"She is the same age as I was," he murmured, the sight of Abigail's large, capital letters screaming in his brain.

Whatever had happened to Emily, whatever she was attempting to convey in her drawings, had most likely happened to Abigail as well. Was it as simple as Mark Jenner beating her? Or was there more to it?


	14. Chapter 14

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Shock (5-04, #4)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

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Chapter **__**14**_

Ichabod's eyes fluttered open as the morning light began to stream through the window, waking him. With a soft grunt he slowly sat up and glanced around, orienting himself.

Van Ripper had offered to keep vigil the previous night in order to let them rest, but both he and Katrina were too distressed to leave the boy's room. Ichabod had still managed to doze off sitting in the chair by the fireplace; but one look at Katrina told him that she hadn't slept a wink. Her face was pale and haggard, her eyes were red and puffy, and he could see the traces of tears on her cheeks.

"Katrina?" he murmured groggily. He pulled himself up to standing and moved over to her, reaching around her from behind and embracing her tightly. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I thought you needed to rest."

He gave her a comforting squeeze and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"Did he wake during the night?"

"No. But his fever is rising again."

"Why Stephen?" Ichabod lamented as he gazed at the boy's prone form once again. "If Abigail was going to possess someone, why did she choose a child?"

"Because he was vulnerable," she answered, resting a gentle hand on one of his.

"Odd that Stephen never spoke of Abigail. He only mentioned Emily. I can only assume that he never actually saw Abigail."

"I suppose it is because Emily was another child."

"Yes, of course. Another child, who presented no danger or suspicion and befriended him. She does not seem to have possessed him from inside. He _saw_ Emily and mentioned that she was with him at the cemetery in fact. And…of course…I saw Emily just yesterday."

He shuddered as he thought of the shadow of the small figure that he'd glimpsed on the stair and the corner of pink material that disappeared from view no sooner had he set eyes on it.

Katrina sensed his unease and squeezed his hand comfortingly.

Ichabod sighed wearily and shook his head. "I don't know. It's still difficult for me…I fear that the supernatural insists on following me everywhere. But…it is no matter now. I…"

He paused, distracted by the memory of Emily's drawings that he'd spent the previous evening examining intently. Releasing Katrina abruptly, he headed for the door.

"I'll be right back," he called out, dashing out of Stephen's room to retrieve Emily's ledgers.

When he returned, he took a seat in the chair by the fire again.

"Have you found something in Emily's ledgers?"

Ichabod opened the ledger to the entry from late April, in which Emily drew herself with a sash around her mouth for the first time and Edna Jenner with a sash around her eyes, blinding her. He flipped through the pages, looking for drawings of Abigail in the context of this oddity. Although Abigail was never drawn with a blindfold, Ichabod now noticed that in the sketches with images of Emily and her mother, Abigail almost always appeared in a separate room, a wall between them. In the drawings in which they were in one room, Abigail always had her back to her daughter.

Frenziedly, he perused the other ledgers, hoping that perhaps there was one that followed this one, covering a later time period. Perhaps Emily had drawn a picture of the murder scene. Unfortunately, the ledger with the odd drawings was the latest one and it only went up to November of 1798. The last entry was dated 30th November, 1798, the same as in her mother's ledger.

"Ichabod? Did you discover anything?"

She approached and took a seat in the other chair.

"I'm…not certain."

He frowned as he flipped though the pages of Emily's ledger for the third time, stopping to examine her drawings once more, hoping to see something that he'd missed before.

"Those drawings are so realistic."

Ichabod started at the sound of Katrina's voice. She had come around to stand by him and was peering into the journal. He was so absorbed in studying the drawings that he hadn't noticed.

"Yes," he replied in a shaky voice.

"Is there something to be learned from them?"

"Perhaps. But I've yet to figure out what it is."

"What an odd picture that is, though," she remarked, gesturing to the sketch on the open page. It was one of the drawings of Emily lying in bed, with Mark Jenner seated by her side and leaning over her. "Look at his left arm."

Her finger rested on the page now, indicating the detail that she was referring to. He studied Mark's arm. It appeared as if he was reaching down toward her, but his hand wasn't visible.

"His hand is hidden. Or missing. I doubt that she drew him without a hand. She was obviously too talented an artist for that. See, there's his right hand. He must be supporting his weight on the bed with his left hand. It's behind her leg. But it's odd. Incongruous. The expression on her grandfather's face isn't loving or tender and yet he's leaning over her as if to kiss her goodnight. He looks almost angry. Perhaps it was unintentional."

"I don't think so," Ichabod murmured. "She was clearly too talented an artist, as you have noted as well as I. The way she captured facial details and expressions in her drawings was exceptional. No, she intended to draw him with this expression…"

He trailed off and gulped involuntarily. Now that his wife had drawn his attention to Mark's expression and arm position a suspicious thought was forming in his mind. He studied the sketch carefully, taking in the facial expressions now, following the line of Mark Jenner's arm with his eye and reaching the same conclusion every time. Hurriedly, he flipped through the ledger, looking for similar drawings and taking note of the position of Mark Jenner's hands and his accompanying expressions.

Ichabod dropped the sketchbook and stood abruptly as a wave of nausea rose up inside of him. How had he not noticed the nuances of the expressions Emily had drawn on her grandfather's face? Perhaps it never entered his mind because it was something he could never have believed.

"What is it?"

"I…I need to take in some fresh air."

"Ichabod, are you alright?" she exclaimed with great concern. "You look positively green."

"Stay here," he managed to answer.

Leaving her bewildered and anxious, he hurried out of the room and stumbled down the stairs. As he stepped outside, the sudden blast of cold air hitting his face offered him relief for a moment. He quickly made his way toward the bridge and the stream, and sank to his knees as the nausea overtook him.

He was still retching into the stream when James McKinley emerged from the tavern and found him.

**oooOooo**

"You look like you could do with something stronger, Constable Crane," McKinley remarked as he set down a cup of steaming tea before him.

"No, I prefer tea. Thank you."

"Your wife was worried. It was she who sent me after you."

"I see."

The tea was a bit too hot to drink, but Ichabod needed the stimulation that it would give him so he took a few small sips, then set the cup aside and faced McKinley.

"Mr. McKinley, I believe…that now I understand the reason for your reluctance to provide me with all of the details of…and the reluctance of everyone in town to discuss this. Emily's drawings…are quite telling. It is this discovery…that has made me quite ill. I believe that you know what I am speaking of."

James McKinley averted his eyes.

"Abigail wrote in her ledger that Emily was the same age as she was. It seemed to be a cryptic phrase to me when I read it at first. But…"

Ichabod trailed off as McKinley lifted his gaze.

"Your suspicions are correct, Constable," he replied, confirming the implicit understanding that Ichabod felt they had just established the moment McKinley met his eye. "I didn't…know about Abigail. For some time I suspected that something…had happened to her at home.…"

He trailed off, hesitating for a moment.

"Something wasn't right. I suspected, as I said. Looking back…I suppose we all did. But a man's home is his private domain, and what happens inside of it is not for anyone else to meddle in. Abigail was beside herself with worry for months. Shortly after Emily's birthday it started. She all but stopped eating and sleeping. She cried all of the time and wouldn't tell her mother what was wrong, no matter how much Abigail coaxed her and pleaded with her. So Abigail looked in her daughter's ledgers, hoping to find a clue about what was troubling her."

"And…she knew immediately what it was."

"Yes."

"In order to protect her daughter she went to Magistrate Dockery…who didn't believe her."

"No one did. And yet, deep in their hearts I believe everyone knew she told the truth. But even I…it was difficult. After her meeting with the magistrate she came to me frantic. She told me that…from the time she reached her tenth year…I knew that she was not prone to lying, but…who could imagine a parent doing that to their child? Or their grandchild, as she was further suggesting? And yet, on the other hand why would she make it up, as Magistrate Dockery suggested?"

Ichabod dropped his head into his hands and sighed sadly.

"She did not make it up," he answered softly when he raised his head again. "It does seem impossible that any man could do that to his daughter. And granddaughter. I can't believe it either…but…the sketches that Emily drew…and Abigail's reaction. It all connects now. There is no denying what happened."

"Abigail was inconsolable during those last months of her life."

A sickening thought crossed Ichabod's mind and he nearly retched again. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed weakly. "Emily! Mr. McKinley…do you know who Emily's real father was? Was it…?"

"No. Abigail knew for certain that it wasn't. Apparently he stopped once she reached a certain age."

They both fell into somber, thoughtful silence. Abigail had been denied justice, as had Emily. No one could believe the mere suggestion of such actions on the part of a parent, especially a father like Mark Jenner, who was the financier and pillar of the town. Thus no one came to her aid. And so, driven by unspeakable grief and rage, Abigail took matters into her own hands and carried out that justice in the form of an extremely violent execution. Edna Jenner was not involved, but she might have witnessed something, or learned of it eventually, and so she became a victim of Abigail's rage as well.

Perhaps unable to live with the guilt of what she had done, Abigail then ended her own life just a fortnight later. Then there was Emily. Ichabod assumed that she had run off in terror after witnessing her mother killing her grandfather. She likely got lost or drowned in the frozen stream, as he had supposed after speaking with Dr. Thompson.

"So now you know," McKinley began then hesitated. "How does knowing this help matters?"

Ichabod shook his head slowly. "Her ghost could not rest after all of these months," he murmured. "What happened to her…and to Emily…is appalling. And worse, no one credited her story or came to her aid. Magistrate Dockery still refuses to believe the truth; in fact he argues vehemently against it. But I have no doubt that it is the truth."

He sighed sadly again.

"It is no wonder…she was trying to protect her daughter. At the very least it provides insight into what happened and why."

"Then you are concluding that it was Abigail who killed her parents?"

"Yes. You know this to be the truth, Mr. McKinley."

"Not for certain," he mumbled, staring into his glass of beer. "But I did suspect. What will you do now?"

"I don't know."

"Perhaps knowing that someone believes that what she told Magistrate Dockery was true may bring Abigail some peace."

Ichabod started at the sound of Katrina's voice. She had descended the stairs so quietly that neither of them had been aware of her presence in the room.

"Katrina," Ichabod exclaimed breathlessly. "What are you doing here?"

"You ran off so abruptly and you appeared quite ill. Are you alright, love?" she asked worriedly, approaching the table where the two men sat and resting her hand on Ichabod's shoulder. Her hand slid down his back and she began to stroke him gently.

A startled expression spread across her features as he turned and seized her free hand abruptly, gazing into her face fiercely.

"How much did you hear?" he demanded in alarm.

"I…I just came into the room minutes ago, Ichabod. You said something happened to Abigail and Emily Jenner. And that when Abigail went to the Magistrate for help, he didn't believe what she told him and he refused to help her. Have I done something wrong?"

He lowered his head sheepishly.

"No. You've done nothing," he answered softly.

James McKinley stood up. "I need a refill," he declared. "Mrs. Crane, may I bring you something to drink while I'm up?"

"Tea would be lovely if you still have hot water," she replied, eyeing Ichabod's half-empty cup. "Thank you."

When James McKinley had disappeared into the kitchen Ichabod raised his gaze to meet his wife's again. She extracted her hand from his and took a seat at the table beside him. He reached out and placed his hand over hers once more, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"Katrina, there is so much in this world...there are so many unspeakably horrid things that occur, that people do to one another. It is bad enough that I must deal with it on a daily basis in my profession. A lovely young woman should not have to be privy to it. I was concerned that you had overheard everything…I didn't mean to startle you, my love."

"You have discovered what happened to Abigail and Emily, Ichabod."

"I've discovered part of it."

"She said that you know now."

"What?"

"Stephen is awake now. Abigail spoke to me through him. Her exact words were, 'your husband knows now'. I was anxious to tell you about it. And to make sure you were alright."

Ichabod was too stunned at this revelation to speak.

"If you do not wish me to know, I will not ask you what happened to them. But, my love, if ever you must unburden yourself of this knowledge, I will listen. You do not have to protect me from everything, Ichabod. I'm stronger than that. Know that whatever you need from me, I will gladly give it. And I want to help Stephen."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. When he spoke his voice was breathy, almost a whisper. "Just knowing that will be enough, Katrina. I would ask nothing more from you."

"What will you do now?"

"If Abigail is now willing to speak through Stephen, I shall attempt to interview her. It's rare that victims can speak for themselves. In this case I believe that Abigail is both an assailant and a victim. And…perhaps she knows what became of her daughter."

"And Magistrate Dockery?"

"I shall not bother him anymore. He has no further information to offer and I doubt he is interested in helping. I've devoted my life to discovering truths and facing them; but this…I can understand that he and the others could not face this. There is no need to press anyone further about this painful incident."


	15. Chapter 15

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** Comfort (10-02, #7)  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

**Note:** Long chapter ahead.

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Chapter _**15**_

Her eyes were open when he entered the room. Or rather Stephen's eyes were open; but it was Abigail who peered out at him through them once again. Ichabod gulped involuntarily and moved toward the bed on shaking legs. It was a relief to sit in the chair beside the bed.

The sleeves of Stephen's shirt were ripped and Ichabod could see the deep gashes on his arms and wrists from where he'd been struggling against the restraints. The skin was red and raw, the wounds gaping and seeping blood, and they would become infected if they weren't looked after. He leaned forward to examine his right wrist but Stephen flinched.

"You're wounded…I should look after that," Ichabod offered stiffly, feeling rather foolish.

Stephen, or Abigail, gazed at him silently then began to writhe against the restraints once more.

"No, don't," he cried, reaching out and placing a firm hand on Stephen's arm. The boy stopped resisting and stared at him with Abigail's eyes once more.

Ichabod swallowed. Words were failing him. He had no idea how to even begin to speak to the ghost of a woman who had taken possession of this boy that he'd taken away from his home village.

"Those wounds…if you keep fighting against the restraints you'll make them worse. I'm worried that they're going to become infected."

He was answered with silence.

"Please, won't you speak to me?"

"Take off the restraints."

The softly growled words passed through Stephen's lips but the voice was a woman's. Ichabod shivered.

"I…I'm sorry. They're to protect…" he trailed off again and swallowed. "I'm sorry. I cannot."

Stephen, or Abigail, began to struggle violently against the restraints once more. Ichabod stood up and tried to still him but it was too late. Possessed once again with strength that was beyond human the boy had managed to rend in two the straps that a moment before had restricted the movement of his arms. With a sharp cry the boy slammed his fists into Ichabod's chest, pushing him away with such force that he was thrown a couple of feet.

Ichabod gulped for air, his chest aching with every breath from the blows of Stephen's fists. He dragged himself to his feet in time to see the boy ripping the restraints off of his body and ankles.

"Oh, dear God," he gasped, clutching his chest, still struggling for breath. It was dawning on him that he was in much more danger than he'd imagined.

But apparently losing the restraints was enough to appease. Stephen only swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat facing him, waiting. Ichabod shivered involuntarily at the expression of melancholy in his eyes, so uncannily identical to Abigail's eyes in the portrait. He lowered his eyes, seeing for the first time that blood had begun to flow heavily from Stephen's wrist from his efforts against the rough restraints. Ichabod groaned and closed his eyes.

"I-I want to help you…Abigail," he began when he'd managed to catch his breath and regain his composure somewhat. His voice still trembled and his hands shook. "But you must tell me what you need from me. I'm at a loss as to what I can do."

The boy remained silent and unmoving and Ichabod regarded him with curiosity. It was odd how Abigail's spirit could shift from violent fury to complete quietude and stillness.

"You're bleeding. I'll call for Dr. Thompson…"

"No!" she shouted roughly, and he suddenly recalled the way she had lashed out at Dr. Thompson, the very action that had prompted them to restrain the boy.

"You dislike Dr. Thompson. Why?"

His question was met with more silence. A feeling of panic gripped Ichabod at her continued refusal to answer him.

"Listen to me." His words began to tumble out at a pitch that was an octave higher than normal. "Stephen cannot continue this way for much longer. He is wasting away from lack of food and activity. Please. Whatever it is...please, don't take it out on him. Take me instead. He's only a child…he's just a year or two older than your daughter…"

She began to keen, a low moan that rose in pitch and volume to a loud, grieving wail.

He waited until she quieted before continuing softly. "Abigail. What happened to your daughter? No one ever found her. Do you remember…?" he trailed off at the sound of knocking on the door.

"Ichabod?"

It was Katrina's worried voice. He turned and was about to call out to her, to order her to stay outside, but she opened the door before he had the chance.

"Are you alright?"

"Katrina…"

"Stephen," she exclaimed, noticing that he was unbound and sitting up.

"Wait, Katrina!" Ichabod seized her arm and stopped her as she began to hurry toward Stephen. "It's not Stephen."

His wife gazed at the boy, studying him intently. Extracting her arm from his grip after a moment, she took his hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze and then moved confidently toward the bed.

"She wouldn't harm me, or anyone who did no ill to her and hers." She took a seat on the edge of the bed beside Stephen and gently took his hand in hers, examining his wrist. He, or Abigail, didn't even flinch or shrink from her touch, but rather appeared calmer, soothed somewhat by Katrina's air of quiet serenity. "I have a salve that can treat this, if you will allow me."

"Thank you."

Katrina stood up and walked toward the door, stopping briefly to reach up and stroke Ichabod's cheek gently.

"I love you," she murmured so only he could hear. "You're very, very brave."

Then she left the room.

His legs could no longer support him and Ichabod moved back to the chair beside the bed, sitting down again quickly.

"You were about to ask me if I remember something," Abigail reminded him.

"Yes…I was. Do you remember…this is difficult for me to ask…but do you recall killing your father and mother?"

"Stepmother."

"I beg pardon. Your stepmother."

"No. But I suppose I did."

Katrina returned with cloth bandages and a jar that contained something that was pale green in color and shut the door behind her. Perching on the bed beside Stephen once more, she opened the jar and began to apply the salve to the boy's bloodied wrists and hands. She glanced up at Ichabod and gave him a reassuring smile, indicating that he should continue with his inquiry while she worked.

"Then, you don't remember doing so?"

"I don't know what happened…I don't know where I had been but I suddenly became aware that I was covered with blood and standing in Edna's room over her bloody body."

"And…Emily?"

"The stream was frozen. I saw her fall through the ice, but I couldn't get to her in time."

"I'm…I'm so sorry," Ichabod murmured sadly. "She saw everything, didn't she?"

He interpreted her silence as an affirmative.

His theory had been correct. Emily witnessed her mother killing her grandparents. She had run away in terror, no doubt. Somehow she ended up on the frozen stream, perhaps fleeing at the sight of her mother, and fell through, becoming trapped. She would have drowned almost immediately.

Tears were streaming down Stephen's face as she spoke again through him. "There was no reason to live after that. I was the cause of my little girl's death just as sure as if I'd killed her with my own hands. What life would there be after that?"

Ichabod felt tears burn his own eyes as she spoke. Katrina had set aside the jar of salve and bandaged Stephen's wrists. She now wiped her hands on a cloth that she'd brought with her and slipped a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry to keep asking questions…but I must," Ichabod continued. "After you looked at Emily's ledgers…"

"I saw to it that she was never left alone with him ever again."

"Your father."

"He never again had the opportunity. But it was too late. She was so unhappy. You didn't see her; how she couldn't eat or sleep. How anxious she was. When she did sleep she had nightmares. Magistrate Dockery was my single last hope." She lapsed into quiet thought for a short time then sighed unhappily. "She could never forgive me for what I did."

"Abigail, I know that no one believed you," Ichabod said softly. "But _I_ believe you. You've remained in this house and now you've taken possession of Stephen for a reason. Why? Was it to bring the truth to light? You have. What can I do to help…to make you release Stephen? Tell me, please."

"Bring Magistrate Dockery here."

"The magistrate? For what purpose?"

She didn't reply.

"You want revenge," he exclaimed as it dawned on him a moment later.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"It won't change anything that's happened," he cried with great passion. "And you would be using Stephen's body as the instrument to harm another person!"

"Abigail," Katrina began quietly. "Do you have any idea what that would do to him? You would be making him an unwilling participant in murder. Stephen is not our natural child, but we care for him very much and plan to adopt him. We found one another through odd circumstances; nevertheless we are a family. No one would believe that he murdered because he was possessed by a vengeful spirit. They will treat him as a murderer. Can you really condemn an eleven-year-old boy to that fate for the rest of his life? Surely, as a mother, you couldn't."

"There are other ways to exact revenge besides physically harming someone," she replied.

Equipped with a sudden burst of courage Ichabod stood up and took a seat on the edge of the bed, at Stephen's other side, and took his hand in his.

"You must believe me," he urged. "Everyone in this town regrets what they allowed to happen. They all feel terribly guilty and ashamed. Is that not enough?"

"I hear that man talking downstairs, saying that I was a hysterical woman who told lies."

"But deep in his heart he knows the truth, Abigail. I promise you that it's so. And I have no doubt that it eats at him from the inside. Not one person in this town will ever forget."

Katrina spoke up after a spell. "Emily's body was never found and she wanders here too. Stephen saw her and spoke to her. We would do anything we could to help both of you."

"Find Emily. And…if you will not allow me to deal with Magistrate Dockery, will you do it for me?" she asked.

"Yes," Ichabod answered. "I won't assault him physically. I'll speak with him and make him hear the truth. But I cannot guarantee his reaction. He is obstinate and may not be able to accept that he made an error in judgment. However, I shall do my best."

A thick silence settled over the room like a blanket and it became very cold. Stephen slumped against Ichabod's shoulder. His eyes were closed. Ichabod instinctively wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. A moment later the chill in the room dissipated.

"She's gone," Katrina said suddenly, her voice filled with wonder.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." She took hold of Stephen's hand and checked his pulse. "His pulse is steady and strong."

They sat in worried silence listening to his even breathing. Katrina reached over and brushed some stray hairs out of the boy's face. A moment later he stirred and opened his eyes.

"Stephen?"

He sat up and gazed around, bewildered.

Ichabod looked into his face anxiously, his hands shaking. There were dark circles under his eyes and they looked sunken in, but it was Stephen who peered out through them now. As haggard and gaunt as he looked, it was Stephen Masbath. He closed his eyes and released a long sigh of relief.

"You're alright," he reassured him quietly, opening his eyes and squeezing the boy's shoulder. "You're alright."

Katrina embraced him warmly and Stephen hugged her back, looking puzzled. He didn't seem to have any idea what had happened to him these past days.

"How do you feel?"

"Hungry."

"Good," she laughed. "I'll go downstairs and prepare a good meal for you. Will you come down and eat, or should I bring dinner up?"

"I'll come down. I'd like to leave this room."

"I don't blame you."

She hugged him again, then released him and headed off to make dinner.

Ichabod watched Stephen carefully, observing him. Other than his weak appearance he seemed himself. Stephen turned to him.

"Are we going to leave this place soon, sir?"

"God willing," Ichabod answered wistfully then chuckled lightly and patted his shoulder again. "There are some things that I have to take care of here first. I made a promise to someone."

**oooOooo**

Ichabod had to support Stephen as they walked downstairs together. The boy was weak and his legs were shaking from recent under-use. But once they were seated in the kitchen and Katrina brought out dinner the boy ate heartily.

"Easy," Ichabod warned him as he wolfed down the first bites of stew and bread. "You don't want to make yourself ill from your first good meal."

Stephen nodded and slowed down ever so slightly.

James McKinley and Dr. Thompson were genuinely pleased to see Stephen when they entered the room and saw him.

"It's good to see you up and about, young man," McKinley greeted him amiably, slapping him lightly on the back.

"Thank you, sir."

Dr. Thompson nodded to them and turned to Stephen. "How are you feeling then?"

The boy shrugged. "A little tired, but alright."

"Now that you're eating full meals again you'll start to feel better. You lost a lot of weight very quickly."

There was still some daylight left when they had finished dinner and Stephen was aching to get outside. Ichabod and Katrina both accompanied him as he walked down the street. Though he was anxious to move around, Stephen tired easily.

"We can walk slowly. There's no need to rush."

"I hate feeling like this," the boy remarked sulkily.

Ichabod patted his back reassuringly. "I know. But I have no doubt you'll recover quickly. Don't worry."

They walked a short way beyond the limits of the town center, then Katrina coaxed Stephen to turn back and head inside.

"Night is falling and it's getting cold," she prodded gently. "We can come outside again first thing tomorrow morning."

By the time they returned many of the villagers had arrived at the tavern, including Magistrate Dockery.

"I'll take Stephen upstairs," Katrina told him quietly.

Ichabod nodded and bid Stephen goodnight. Then he took a seat at the table where Magistrate Dockery had joined Dr. Thompson, intent on speaking with him. Despite the hostile glance he received from the magistrate and many of the other more suspicious folk from town, he was determined to keep his promise to Abigail and make all of them hear the truth.

**oooOooo**

"Drink this down," Katrina ordered gently, handing the steaming cup to him.

Ichabod was still shaken up after his talk with Magistrate Dockery. But it wasn't the angry remarks, or the torrent of epithets and indignant cries that had been thrown his way that upset him so. It was sadness and frustration at the refusal to hear him, to hear the truth. Why was it that every place he went the majority of people wouldn't listen to truth or reason?

"No one has an easy time admitting they're wrong, especially someone as advanced in age as he is," his wife counseled him gently. "Don't you see, Ichabod? If he acknowledges the truth of what Mark Jenner did then he has to take responsibility for the lost lives of each one of the Jenners."

"I suppose you're right," he replied sadly.

"Drink," she insisted, gesturing to the teacup in his hand. He hadn't even raised it to his lips yet.

She sat on the edge of the bed beside him while he drained the cup.

"Well, I can do no more for Abigail as far as Magistrate Dockery is concerned," he sighed when he'd finished the tea. "Now I must focus my attention on finding Emily."

Katrina took the empty cup from him and set it on the night table. They both began to undress. Ichabod slipped into bed and drew the blankets up around him.

"How was Stephen for the rest of the evening?" he asked, watching his wife as she dressed for bed.

"Fine. He had trouble falling asleep, naturally. I stayed with him and we read together for awhile until he felt that he could sleep."

She slipped into bed beside him and tugged at the blankets.

"Strange," he murmured thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling.

"What is?"

"I don't understand. How is it that Stephen could see Emily but Abigail's ghost couldn't? Surely they must have crossed paths." No sooner had he asked the question he realized how foolish it sounded.

The question didn't faze Katrina at all though. "They exist in different states, I suppose. Abigail was able to possess Stephen. Emily couldn't. But she could be seen, not only by Stephen, but by you."

"Yes." He shivered.

He was tempted to ask her how she knew that Abigail wouldn't attack her when she drew near, and he wondered if she had caught on to what had really happened to both mother and daughter. After all, she had looked in his ledger in Sleepy Hollow. What if she had been tempted to peek at Emily's ledger when he was out of the room, to look closer at those drawings? Could she hide the level of distress that she must feel with such knowledge? He concluded that he was better off refraining from questioning her about it. The manner in which his wife divined such things was better left as a mystery to him. His success in speaking with Abigail and extracting information was due in large part to the effect of Katrina's calming presence on the spirit. That was all the knowledge that he needed. Stephen was himself again and recovering. That and keeping his promise to Abigail were the things that were important now.

She raised herself up on an elbow and leaned over to kiss him. Her long golden hair brushed his cheek ever so slightly, stirring a torrent of emotion and yearning for her. They hadn't touched each other this way in many days, so frantic and preoccupied had they been with Stephen. He embraced her and pulled her down onto him, kissing her passionately.

Later, as they lay side by side, their heated bodies cooling, Ichabod found his thoughts wandering to the drawings in Emily's ledger and a feeling of melancholy filled him. He would never forget it.

Katrina had turned on her side and raised herself up on an elbow again. Reaching over, she stroked his cheek tenderly and brushed his hair out of his face.

"Let it go, Ichabod. You can't change what happened to Emily or Abigail. But know that for every man who behaves like Mark Jenner there are a dozen good men like you. Like my father."

His lips parted slightly and he gazed at her, stunned. She smiled and pressed her finger to his lips. He kissed it tenderly.

"You look surprised, my love."

He finally spoke. "Here I was thinking I had to protect you from the ills of the world. In some ways you are wiser than I am."

**oooOooo**

When Ichabod woke in the morning he slipped out of bed, leaving Katrina to sleep, and dressed, then padded off to Stephen's room to check on him. Stephen was gone from his bed and not to be found in the house upon searching. He hurried downstairs. James McKinley had left already and the tavern was empty.

He dashed outside, becoming panicked as he imagined Abigail possessing Stephen again and forcing him to murder. Or to throw himself in the stream so that he would drown too.

Frantically he looked up and down the street, catching sight of Mrs. Greeley.

She nodded a greeting to him as she approached and he hurried forth to meet her.

"Mrs. Greeley. Good morning."

"Good morning, Constable. Are you looking for your boy?"

"You've seen him?"

"He is with Jamie and the others. Now that the stream has thawed somewhat they've resumed their search." She pointed and Ichabod followed the direction of her finger with his eyes. "The stream continues on through that forest. Eventually it meets the river. They are searching there now."

"Thank you."

"I'm glad he's feeling better, Constable."

Ichabod walked in the direction that Mrs. Greeley had indicated wondering what had prompted the villagers to move their search so far from where they had begun it. The road ended and he found himself in a small snow-covered clearing. A thick forest lay beyond it.

Fortunately it was not windy today and he walked through the forest, following the stream, his boots crunching on the hardened snow. After a long trek through the woods, the river came into view. Stephen stood on the bank with the village men that had gathered there, watching them. Two men were in a boat in the middle of the water, searching the bottom with a grappling hook. Finding nothing in one spot they rowed further on, stopping once more and searching.

James McKinley stood on the bank as well. He glanced back and caught sight of Ichabod, then nodded a greeting.

Ichabod returned the nod and moved toward the boy. He halted in his tracks and his mouth fell open when he glimpsed the back of the dark-haired little girl in a pink dress that stood beside Stephen. In moments his body was covered in gooseflesh and his hair felt as if it was standing on end. She looked as real as any of them and, though he couldn't see her face, he knew exactly who she was.

He shook his head, closed his eyes and then opened them again. She was still standing there; yet he was certain that Stephen had been standing alone only moments before.

"Stephen…" he began weakly. He was shaking and he felt dizzy.

Stephen turned to him and the girl followed suit. Ichabod recognized her face immediately from the portrait in Abigail Jenner's bed chamber and the blood drained from his face.

"Sir," Stephen greeted him.

Ichabod gulped nervously and stood still, gaping at Emily.

"Are…are you feeling…alright, Stephen? I-I w-was wondering where you had gone," he finally managed to stammer.

"I'm feeling better, sir. I've been cooped up in that room for so long," he explained. "I just wanted to walk around and get some air."

"Yes…I can understand that," Ichabod replied, unable to take his eyes off of the little girl.

With great trepidation he gingerly stepped closer to the two children.

"And you followed these men all the way out here?"

The boy shrugged. "I was curious to see what was going on."

Ichabod nodded. The fact that Stephen had managed to walk all the way here was a good sign; it meant that some of his strength had returned.

"Ichabod?"

He turned around, shocked to see Katrina approaching.

"I saw that you and Stephen were both gone…a woman told me where to find you…are you alright?"

She clasped his hand.

"Y-yes," he murmured, turning back to Stephen.

"My God!" she whispered, gazing in Stephen's direction. "Is that…?"

He nodded.

"I've got something!" one of the men cried from the boat after a long while.

They struggled for some time before finally pulling something from the river and into the boat with them.

As the boat drew near the bank of the river, two men on dry land hurried forward to pull it out of the water and onto shore. The two men inside climbed out and stood with the others in a huddle, peering down into the rowboat, no doubt at the body, and speaking animatedly.

James McKinley turned again and called out to him. "Constable, we found her."

Ichabod's eyes wandered back to the apparition of Emily standing before them. Had _she_ led the men here, the way she led him to her ledgers? She still hadn't drawn anyone else's eye. Even Stephen didn't seem to be aware of her presence. He and Katrina alone saw her.

"You are certain of that?"

Surely she would no longer be recognizable if her body had been in the water for nearly a year. It occurred to him that he ought to join the group of men gathered around the rowboat, to examine the body, but he found that his legs wouldn't move. He couldn't take his eyes off of the figure of Emily Jenner that stood in plain sight beside Stephen. She turned around again and gazed at him with melancholy eyes.

"We think that her body got stuck under a crevice at the bottom of the river," McKinley continued. "The cold water preserved her. Her face is blue, but otherwise it hasn't changed. It's definitely her."

"I…see."

A moment later Emily vanished into thin air.

"It _was_ her!" Katrina exclaimed breathlessly.

Ichabod fainted.


	16. Epilogue

**Title:** Aftermath  
**Author:** occhi bella  
**Set:** 15-03  
**Theme:** None  
**Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow (movie)  
**Character:** Ichabod Crane  
**Rated:** R  
**Warning:** Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers  
**Disclaimer:** Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

**Summary:** Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.

**Note:** Completed! Many thanks to all of the readers and reviewers. I hope people enjoyed this fic despite its dark tone.

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Epilogue

The touch of his wife's lips on his cheek woke Ichabod from his slumber and he raised his head. The coach was stopped and he gazed out the window, realizing that they had arrived back in New York. He sighed contentedly.

They left McKinley's tavern and the village as soon as the weather allowed. Other than a warm exchange with James McKinley, in which they thanked him for his hospitality and he expressed gratitude to Ichabod for bringing closure to a horrific incident in the town's history while still honoring Abigail's memory, and a last minute visit and farewell from Mrs. Greeley they departed without meeting another soul from town. Everyone else appeared to be in hiding.

Two things happened before they departed from that place. Emily Jenner had finally been given a proper burial in the cemetery where the rest of her family rested and next to where her mother's body lay. And Magistrate Dockery died a day after they found the girl's body and was himself laid to rest. Ichabod wondered if Abigail had visited the magistrate in spirit, forcing him to face something he couldn't. Of course, since the man was over seventy years of age his death was likely a natural ending to his long life. The timing may have merely been a coincidence. Whatever the explanation, Ichabod could only pray that the souls of Abigail and Emily had finally found peace.

Both Ichabod and Katrina had insisted that Stephen sit inside the carriage during the ride home but the boy couldn't stay still for a moment. He fidgeted and shifted position constantly. After they stopped and the three of them took a walk to stretch their legs while Van Ripper watered the horses, they conceded and allowed Stephen to sit up front with Van Ripper. Ichabod had slept for the rest of the ride home.

Ichabod turned to Katrina now and smiled, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. Then he opened the door to the coach and alighted, turning and holding out his hand for her to hold onto as she stepped out of the carriage.

Stephen was in good spirits and clearly happy to be active again as he eagerly assisted Van Ripper in unloading their belongings from the coach.

"What a lovely street!" Katrina exclaimed, admiring the beautiful three- and four-storey residences that lined the cobblestone street and the white façade of Ichabod's elegant home.

Snow was falling in flurries here. They approached the door to his building and Ichabod reached into his pocket, withdrawing his keys and stepping forward to open the door. Katrina stamped the light dusting of snow off of her boots and stepped inside. He held the door open and Stephen hurried in lugging four bags at once. Van Ripper lumbered after him, carrying the rest of their belongings.

After they had said their goodbyes and Van Ripper left, they began to remove their boots and coats.

Katrina shivered with cold and Ichabod put an arm around her. "I'll get a fire started, my love."

"I'll do it," Stephen offered eagerly. He pointed to the first room off to the right. "This way?"

Ichabod nodded and watched him bound off into the sitting room.

"Stephen seems to be himself again."

"He looks much better. The color has returned to his cheeks and he's gained some weight back. But we'll need to find activities to keep him busy," Katrina remarked. "I'm afraid lying in bed for so long left him with excess energy."

"Yes. I only hope…do you think he remembers anything? It's hard to determine if he was even aware of her presence while she…he hasn't spoken of it at all and I haven't mentioned it to him."

"Nor have I. But I have faith that he will heal completely, whether he remembers or not. You do not have to worry, Ichabod. He's young and resilient."

"Yes, I suppose so." Ichabod shook off the haunted feeling that lingered as they spoke of it and took her hand with a light smile. "Come, my love. Let's join Stephen in the sitting room and warm up by the fire. And then I will show both of you around your new home."


End file.
